MR. REGINALD FORTUNE came into Superintendent Bell’s room at Scotland Yard. “That was chocolate cream,” he said placidly. “You’d better arrest the aunt.”

The superintendent took up his telephone receiver and spoke into it fervently. You remember the unpleasant affair of the aunt and her niece’s child.

“‘Oh, fat white woman that nobody loves,’” Mr. Fortune murmured. “Well, well. She’s not wholesome, you know. Some little error in the ductless glands.”

“She’s for it,” said Superintendent Bell with grim satisfaction. “That’s a wicked woman, Mr. Fortune, and as clever as sin.”

“Yes, quite unhealthy. A dull case, Bell.” He yawned and wandered about the room and came to a stand by the desk. “What are these curios?” He pointed to a skeleton key and a pad of cotton-wool.

“The evidence in that young doctor’s case, the Bloomsbury diamond burglary. Not worth keeping, I suppose. That was a bad business though. I was sorry for the lad. But it was a straight case. Did you read it, sir? Young fellow making a start, hard fight for it, on his beam ends, gets to know a man with a lot of valuable stuff in his rooms—and steals it. An impudent robbery too—but that’s the usual way when a decent fellow goes wrong, he loses his head. Lead us not into temptation. That’s the moral of Dr. Wilton’s case. He’s only thirty, he’s a clever fellow, he ought to have done well, he’s ruined himself—and if he’d had a hundred pounds in the bank he’d have run straight enough.”

“A lot of crime is a natural product.” Mr. Fortune repeated a favourite maxim of his. “I didn’t read it, Bell. How did it go?” He sat down and lit a cigar.

“The trial was in this morning’s papers, sir. Only a small affair. Dr. Horace Wilton came out of the army with a gratuity and a little money of his own. He set up as a specialist. You know the usual thing. His plate up with three or four others on a Harley Street house where he had a little consulting-room to himself. He lived in a Bloomsbury flat. Well, the patients didn’t come. He wasn’t known, he had no friends, and his money began to run out.”

“Poor devil,” Reggie nodded.

“A Dutch diamond merchant called Witt came to live in the flats. Wilton got to know him, prescribed for a cold or something. Witt took to the doctor, made friends, heard about his troubles, offered to get him a berth in the Dutch colonies, gave him two or three rough diamonds—a delicate way of giving him money, I suppose. Then one morning the valet—service flats they are—coming into Witt’s rooms found him heavily asleep. He’d been chloroformed. There was that pad on his pillow.”

Reggie took up the box in which the cotton-wool and the skeleton key lay.

“Don’t shake it,” said the superintendent. “Do you see those scraps of tobacco? That’s important. The bureau in which Witt kept the diamonds he had with him had been forced open and the diamonds were gone. Witt sent for the police. Now you see that tobacco on the cotton-wool. The inspector spotted that. The cotton-wool must have been handled by a man who smoked that tobacco. Most likely carried it in the same pocket. Unusual stuff, isn’t it? Well, the inspector remarked on that to Witt. Witt was horrified. You see it’s South African tobacco. And he knew Wilton used the stuff. There was some spilt in the room, too.”

“Have you got that?” said Reggie.

“No. I don’t think it was produced. But our man saw it, and he’s reliable. Then a Dutch journalist dropped in. He was just over in England. He’d called on Witt late the night before and couldn’t make him hear. That surprised him because as he came up he’d seen some one coming out of Witt’s rooms, some one who went into Wilton’s. That was enough to act on. Wilton was arrested and his flat was searched. Tucked away in the window seat they found the diamonds and that skeleton key. He stood his trial yesterday, he made no defence but to swear that he knew nothing about it. The evidence was clear. Witt—he must be a soft-hearted old fellow—Witt tried to let him down as gently as he could and asked the judge to go easy with him. Old Borrowdale gave him five years. A stiff sentence, but the case itself would break the man’s career, poor chap. A bad business, sir, isn’t it? Impudent, ungrateful piece of thieving—but he might have been honest enough if he could have made a living at his job.”

Mr. Fortune did not answer. He was looking at the key. He set it down, took up a magnifying glass, carried the box to the light and frowned over the cotton-wool.

“What’s the matter with it, sir?”

“The key,” Mr. Fortune mumbled, still studying the cotton-wool. “Why was the key made in Germany? Why does Dr. Horace Wilton of Harley Street and Bloomsbury use a skeleton key that was made in Solingen?”

“Well, sir, you can’t tell how a man comes by that sort of stuff. It goes about from hand to hand, don’t it?”

“Yes. Whose hand?” said Reggie. “And why does your local expert swear this is South African tobacco? There is a likeness. But this is that awful stuff they sell in Germany and call Rauch-tabak.”

Bell was startled. “That’s awkward, sir. German too, eh?”

“Well, you can buy Solingen goods outside Germany. And German tobacco, too. Say in Holland.”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, sir?”

“Oh, I think the tobacco was a little error. I think the tobacco ought not to have been there. But it was rather unlucky for Dr. Wilton your bright expert took it for his brand.”

The superintendent looked uncomfortable. “Yes, sir, that’s the sort of thing we don’t want to happen. But after all the case didn’t turn on the tobacco. There was the man who swore he saw Wilton leaving Witt’s flat and the finding of the diamonds in Wilton’s room. Without the tobacco the evidence was clear.”

“I know. I said the tobacco was superfluous. That’s why it interests me. Superfluous, not to say awkward. We know Wilton don’t use Rauch-tabak. Yet there is Rauch-tabak on the chloroformed pad. Which suggests that some one else was on the job. Some fellow with a taste for German flavours. The sort of fellow who’d use a German key.”

“There’s not a sign of Wilton’s having an accomplice,” said Bell heavily. “But of course it’s possible.”

Mr. Fortune looked at him with affection. “Dear Bell,” he said, “you must find the world very wonderful. No, I wouldn’t look for an accomplice. But I think you might look for the diamond merchant and the journalist. I should like to ask them who smokes Rauch-tabak.”

“There must be an investigation,” Bell sighed. “I see that, sir. But I can’t see that it will do the poor fellow any good. And it’s bad for the department.”

Reggie smiled upon him. “Historic picture of an official struggling with his humanity,” he said. “Poor old Bell!”

At the end of that week Mr. Fortune was summoned to Scotland Yard. He found the chief of the Criminal Investigation Department in conference with Eddis, a man of law from the Home Office.

“Hallo! Life is real, life is earnest, isn’t it, Lomas?” he smiled.

The Hon. Sidney Lomas put up an eyeglass and scowled at him. “You know, you’re not a man of science, Fortune. You’re an agitator. You ought to be bound over to keep the peace.”

“I should call him a departmental nuisance,” said Eddis gloomily.

“In returnin’ thanks (one of your larger cigars would do me no harm, Lomas) I would only ask, where does it hurt you?”

“The Wilton case was a very satisfactory case till you meddled,” said Eddis. “Also it was a chose jugÉe.”

“And now it’s unjudged? How good for you!” Reggie chuckled. “How stimulating!”

“Now,” said Lomas severely, “it’s insane. It’s a nightmare.”

“Yes. Yes, I dare say that’s what Dr. Wilton thinks,” said Reggie gravely. “Well, how far have you got?”

“You were right about the tobacco, confound you. And the key. Both of German birth. And will you kindly tell me what that means?”

“My honourable friend’s question,” said Reggie, “should be addressed to Mynheer Witt or Mynheer Gerard. You know, this is like Alice in Wonderland. Sentence first, trial afterwards. Why didn’t you look into the case before you tried it? Then you could have asked Witt and Gerard these little questions when you had them in the box. And very interesting too.”

“We can’t ask them now, at any rate. They’ve vanished. Witt left his flat on the day of the trial. Gerard left his hotel the same night. Both said they were going back to Amsterdam. And here’s the Dutch police information. ‘Your telegram of the 27th not understood. No men as described known in Amsterdam. Cannot trace arrivals.’”

“Well, well,” said Reggie. “Our active and intelligent police force. The case has interest, hasn’t it, Lomas, old thing?”

“What is it you want to suggest, Fortune?” Eddis looked at him keenly.

“I want to point out the evanescence of the evidence—the extraordinary evanescence of the evidence.”

“That’s agreed,” Eddis nodded. “The whole thing is unsatisfactory. The tobacco, so far as it is evidence, turns out to be in favour of the prisoner. The only important witnesses for the prosecution disappear after the trial leaving suspicion of their status. But there remains the fact that the diamonds were found in the prisoner’s room.”

“Oh yes, some one put ’em there,” Reggie smiled.

“Let’s have it clear, Fortune,” said the man of law. “Your suggestion is that the whole case against Wilton was manufactured by these men who have disappeared?”

“That is the provisional hypothesis. Because nothing else covers the facts. There were German materials used, and Wilton has nothing to do with Germany. The diamond merchant came to the flats where Wilton was already living and sought Wilton’s acquaintance. The diamond merchant’s friend popped up just in the nick of time to give indispensable evidence. And the moment Wilton is safe in penal servitude the pair of them vanish, and the only thing we can find out about them is that they aren’t what they pretended to be. Well, the one hypothesis which fits all these facts is that these two fellows wanted to put Dr. Horace Wilton away. Any objection to that, Eddis?”

“There’s only one objection—why? Your theory explains everything that happened, but leaves us without any reason why anything happened at all. That is, it’s an explanation which makes the case more obscure than ever. We can understand why Wilton might have stolen diamonds. Nobody can understand why anyone should want to put him in prison.”

“Oh my dear fellow! You’re so legal. What you don’t know isn’t knowledge. You don’t know why Wilton had to be put out of the way. No more do I. But——”

“No more did Wilton,” said Eddis sharply. “He didn’t suspect these fellows. His defence didn’t suggest that he had any enemies. He only denied all knowledge of the theft, and his counsel argued that the real thief had used his rooms to hide the diamonds in because he was surprised and scared.”

“Yes. That was pretty feeble, wasn’t it? These lawyers, Eddis, these lawyers! A stodgy tribe.”

“We do like evidence.”

“Then why not use it? The man Witt was very interesting in the box. He said that in the kindness of his heart he had offered this ungrateful young doctor a job in the Dutch colonies. Quite a nice long way from England, Eddis. Wilton wouldn’t take it. So Wilton had to be provided for otherwise.”

Eddis looked at him thoughtfully. “I agree there’s something in that. But why? We know all about Wilton. He’s run quite straight till now—hospital career, military service, this private practice all straightforward and creditable. How should he have enemies who stick at nothing to get him out of the way? A man in a gang of criminals or revolutionaries is sometimes involved in a sham crime by the others to punish him, or for fear he should betray them. But that can’t be Wilton’s case. His life’s all open and ordinary. I suppose a man might have private enemies who would use such a trick, though I don’t know another case.”

“Oh Lord, yes,” said Lomas, “there was the Buckler affair. I always thought that was the motive in the Brendon murder.”

Eddis frowned. “Well—as you say. But Wilton has no suspicion of a trumped-up case. He doesn’t know he has enemies.”

“No,” said Reggie. “I rather think Wilton don’t know what it is he knows. Suppose he blundered on some piece of awkward evidence about Mr. Witt or some of Mr. Witt’s friends. He don’t know it’s dangerous—but they do.”

“Men have been murdered in a case like that and never knew why they were killed,” said Lomas.

“I dare say,” Eddis cried. “It’s all quite possible. But it’s all in the air. I have nothing that I can act upon.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Reggie. “You’re so modest.”

“Perhaps I am,” Eddis shrugged. “But I can’t recommend Wilton’s sentence for revision on a provisional hypothesis.”

“Revision be damned,” Reggie cried. “I want him free.”

Eddis stared at him. “But this is fantastic,” he protested.

“Free and cleared. My God, think of the poor beggar in a convict gang because these rascals found him inconvenient. To reduce his sentence is only another wrong. He wants you to give him his life back.”

“It is a hard case,” Eddis sighed. “But what can I do? I can’t clear the man’s character. If we let him out now, he’s a broken man.”

“My dear fellow, I’m saying so,” said Reggie mildly. “There’s also another point. What is it Mr. Witt’s up to that’s so important? I could bear to know that.”

“That’s not my job,” said Eddis with relief. “But you’re still in the air, Fortune. What do you want to do? I must take some action.”

“And that’s very painful to any good official. I sympathize with you. Lomas sympathizes with you more, don’t you, Lomas, old thing? And I’m not sure that you can do any good.” Mr. Fortune relapsed into cigar smoke and meditation.

“You’re very helpful,” said Eddis.

“The fact is, all the evidence against the man has gone phut,” said Lomas. “It’s deuced awkward, but we have to face it. Better let him out, Eddis.”

Eddis gasped. “My dear Lomas! I really can’t follow you. The only evidence which is proved false is the tobacco, which wasn’t crucial. The rest is open to suspicion, but we can’t say it’s false, and it satisfied the judge and jury. It’s unprecedented to reduce the sentence to nothing in such a case.”

“I’m not thinking of your troubles,” said Lomas. “I want to know what Mr. Witt has up his sleeve.”

Reggie came out of his smoke. “Let Wilton out—have him watched—and see what Witt and Co. get up to. Well, that’s one way. But it’s a gamble.”

“It’s also out of the question,” Eddis announced.

Reggie turned on him. “What exactly are you for, Eddis?” he said. “What is the object of your blessed existence?”

Eddis remarked coldly that it was not necessary to lose one’s temper.

“No. No, I’m not cross with you, but you puzzle my simple mind. I thought your job was to see justice done. Well, get on with it.”

“If you’ll be so very good as to say what you suggest,” said Eddis, flushing.

“You’ll say it’s unprecedented. Well, well. This is my little notion. Tell the defence about the tobacco and say that that offers a ground for carrying the case to the Court of Appeal. Then let it get into the papers that there’s a doubt about the conviction, probability of the Wilton case being tried again, and so on. Something rather pompous and mysterious to set the papers going strong about Wilton.” He smiled at Lomas. “I think we could wangle that?”

“I have known it done,” said Lomas.

“Good heavens, I couldn’t have any dealings with the press,” Eddis cried.

“Bless your sweet innocence. We’ll manage it. It don’t matter what the papers say so long as they say a lot. That’ll wake up Witt and Co., and we’ll see what happens.”

Eddis looked horrified and bewildered. “I think it is clear the defence should be advised of the flaw discovered in the evidence in order that the conviction may be reviewed by the Court of Appeal,” he said solemnly. “But of course I—I couldn’t sanction anything more.”

“That’s all right, my dear fellow,” Lomas smiled “Nobody sanctions these things. Nobody does them. They only happen.” And Eddis was got rid of.

“My country, oh my country!” Reggie groaned. “That’s the kind of man that governs England.”

A day or two later saw Mr. Fortune shivering on an April morning outside Princetown prison. He announced to the governor that he wanted to get to know Dr. Wilton.

“I don’t think you’ll make much of him,” the governor shook his head. “The man seems stupefied. Of course a fellow who has been in a good position often is so when he comes here. Wilton’s taking it very hard. When we told him there was a flaw in the evidence and he could appeal against his sentence, he showed no interest. He was sullen and sour as he has been all the time. All he would say was ‘What’s the good? You’ve done for me.’”

“Poor devil,” Reggie sighed.

“It may be.” The governor looked dubious. “No one can judge a man’s character on his first days in prison. But I’ve known men who gave me a good deal more reason to believe them innocent.”

Dr. Wilton was brought in, a shred of a man in his prison clothes. A haggard face glowered at Reggie. “My name’s Fortune, Dr. Wilton,” Reggie held out his hand. It was ignored. “I come from Scotland Yard. I found the mistake which had been made about the tobacco. It made me very interested in your case. I feel sure we don’t know the truth of it. If you can help me to that it’s going to help you.” He waited.

“The police can’t help me,” said Wilton. “I’m not going to say anything.”

“My dear chap, I know that was a bad blunder. But there’s more than that wants looking into. If you’ll give us a chance we might be able to clear up the whole case and set you on your feet again. That’s what I’m here for.”

And Wilton laughed. “No thanks,” he said unpleasantly.

“Just think of it. I can’t do you any harm. I’m looking for the truth. I’m on your side. What I want to know is, have you got any enemies? Anyone who might like to damage you? Anybody who wanted to put you out of the way?”

“Only the police,” said Wilton.

“Oh, my dear chap!” Reggie brushed that away. “Did anything strange ever happen to you before this charge?”

“What?” Wilton flushed. “Oh, I see. I’m an old criminal, am I? Better look for my previous convictions. Or you can invent ’em. Quite easy.”

“My dear chap, what good can this do you?” said Reggie sadly. “The police didn’t invent this charge. Your friend Mr. Witt made it. Do you know anything about Mr. Witt? Did it ever occur to you he wanted you off the scene—in the Dutch colonies—or in prison?”

“I’ve nothing against Witt,” said Wilton.

“Oh, my dear fellow! How did the diamonds get in your room?”

“Yes, how did they?” said Wilton savagely. “Ask your police inspector. The man who said that was my tobacco. You’re a policeman. You know how these jobs are done.”

“I wish I did,” Reggie sighed. “If I did I dare say you wouldn’t be here.”

But he could get no more out of Dr. Wilton. He went away sorrowful. He had not recovered his spirits when he sought Lomas next morning. Lomas was brisk. “You’re the man I want. What’s the convict’s theory of it?”

Reggie shook his head. “Lomas, old thing, do I ever seem a little vain of my personal charm? The sort of fellow who thinks fellows can’t resist him?”

“Nothing offensive, Fortune. A little childlike, perhaps. You do admire yourself, don’t you?”

“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’ When you find me feeling fascinating again, kindly murmur the name Wilton. I didn’t fascinate him. Not one little damn. He was impossible.”

“You surprise me,” said Lomas gravely. “Nothing out of him at all?”

“Too much, too much,” Reggie sighed. “Sullen, insolent, stupid—that was our young doctor, poor devil. It was the wicked police that did him in, a put-up job by the force, the inspector hid the diamonds in his room to spite him. Such was Dr. Horace Wilton, the common, silly criminal to the life. It means nothing, of course. The poor beggar’s dazed. Like a child kicking the naughty chair that he fell over.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Lomas. “The inspector has shot himself, Fortune. We had him up here, you know, to inquire into the case. He was nervous and confused. He went back home and committed suicide.” Reggie Fortune huddled himself together in his chair. “Nothing against the man before. There’s only this question of the tobacco against him now. But it looks ugly, doesn’t it?”

“We know he said the tobacco was what it isn’t. If that made him kill himself he was too conscientious for a policeman, poor beggar. Why does it look ugly, Lomas? I think it’s pitiful. My God, if we all shot ourselves when we made mistakes, there would be vacancies in the force. Poor Wilton said the inspector put the diamonds in his room. But that’s crazy.”

“It’s all crazy. You are a little confused yourself, Fortune. You say it’s preposterous for the man to shoot himself merely because he made a mistake, and equally preposterous to suppose he had any other reason.”

“Poor beggar, poor beggar,” Reggie murmured. “No, Lomas, I’m not confused. I’m only angry. Wilton’s not guilty and your inspector’s not guilty. And one’s in prison and one’s dead, and we call ourselves policemen. Shutting the stable door after the horse’s stolen, that’s a policeman’s job. But great heavens, we don’t even shut the door.”

Lomas shook his head. “Not only angry, I fear, but rattled. My dear Fortune, what can we do?”

“Witt hasn’t shown his hand?”

“Not unless he had a hand in the inspector’s suicide.”

“I suppose it was suicide?”

“Well, you’d better look at the body. The evidence is good enough.”

“Nothing in the papers?”

Lomas stared at him. “Columns of course. All quite futile. You didn’t expect evidence in the papers, did you?”

“You never know, you know. You don’t put a proper value on the Press, Lomas.”

It has been remarked of Mr. Fortune that when he is interested he will do everything himself. This is considered by professional critics a weakness. Yet in this case of the young doctor, where he was continually occupied with details, he seems to have kept a clear head for strategy.

He went to see the inspector’s body in the mortuary. He came out in gloomy thought.

“Satisfied, sir?” said Superintendent Bell, who escorted him.

Reggie stopped and stared at him. “Oh, Peter, what a word!” he muttered. “Satisfied! No, Bell, not satisfied. Only infuriated. He killed himself all right, poor beggar. One more victim for Witt and Company.”

“What’s the next move, sir?”

“Goodbye,” said Mr. Fortune. “I’m going home to read the papers.”

With all the London papers which had appeared since the news that there was a doubt about the justice of Wilton’s conviction had been given them, he shut himself into his study. Most of them had taken the hint that there was a mystery in the case and made a lot of it. The more rational were content to tell the story in detail, pointing out the incongruity of such a man as Wilton and the crime. The more fatuous put out wild inventions as to the theories held by the police. But there was general sympathy with Dr. Wilton, a general readiness to expect that he would be cleared. He had a good press—except for the “Daily Watchman.”

The “Daily Watchman” began in the same strain as the rest of the sillier papers, taking Wilton’s innocence for granted, and devising crazy explanations of the burglary. But on the third day it burst into a different tune. Under a full-page headline “The Wilton Scandal,” its readers were warned against the manufactured agitation to release the man Wilton. It was a trick of politicians and civil servants and intellectuals to prevent the punishment of a rascally criminal. It was another case of one law for the rich and another for the poor. It was a corrupt job to save a scoundrel who had friends in high places. It was, in fine, all sorts of iniquity, and the British people must rise in their might and keep the wicked Wilton in gaol if they did not want burglars calling every night.

Mr. Fortune went to sup at that one of his clubs used by certain journalists. There he sought and at last found Simon Winterbottom, the queerest mixture of scholarship, slang, and backstairs gossip to be found in London. “Winter,” said he, having stayed the man with flagons, “who runs the ‘Daily Watchman’?”

“My God!” Winterbottom was much affected. “Are you well, Reginald? Are you quite well? It’s the wonkiest print on the market. All newspapers are run by madmen, but the ‘Watchman’ merely dithers.”

“You said ‘on the market,’” Reggie repeated. “Corrupt?”

“Well, naturally. Too balmy to live honest. Why this moral fervour, Reginald? I know you’re officially a guardian of virtue, but you mustn’t let it weigh on your mind.”

“I want to know why the ‘Watchman’ changed sides on the Wilton case.”

Winterbottom grinned. “That was a giddy stunt, wasn’t it? The complete Gadarene. I don’t know, Reginald. Why ask for reasons? Let twenty pass and stone the twenty-first, loving not, hating not, just choosing so.”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “It’s the change of mind. The sudden change of mind. This is rather a bad business, Winter.”

“Oh, simian,” Winterbottom agreed. His comical face was working. “You are taking it hard, Reginald.”

“I’m thinking of that poor devil Wilton. Who got at the Watchman, old thing? I could bear to know.”

On the next day but one Mr. Fortune received a letter.

Dear R.,—

The greaser Kemp who owns the “Watchman” came in one bright day, cancelled all instructions on the Wilton case and dictated the new line. No known cause for the rash act. It leaks from his wretched intimates that Kemp has a new pal, one Kuyper, a ruffian said by some to be a Hun, certainly a City mushroom. This seems highly irrelevant. You must not expect Kemp to be rational even in his vices. Sorry.

S. W.

Mr. Fortune went into the city and consumed turtle soup and oyster patties with Tommy Owen, the young son of an ancient firm of stockbrokers. When they were back again in the dungeon which is Tommy’s office, “Thomas, do you know anything of one Kuyper?” he said.

“Wrong number, old bean,” Tommy Owen shook his round head. “Not in my department. International finance is Mr. Julius Kuyper’s line.”

Reggie smiled. It is the foible of Tommy Owen to profess ignorance. “Big business?” he said.

“Not so much big business as queer business. Mr. Julius Kuyper blew into London some months ago. Yes, January. He is said to be negotiating deals in Russian mining properties.”

“Sounds like selling gold bricks.”

“Well, not in my department,” said Tommy Owen again. “There’s some money somewhere. Mr. Kuyper does the thing in style. He’s thick with some fellows who don’t go where money isn’t. In point of fact, old dear, I’ve rather wondered about Mr. Kuyper. Do you know anything?”

“Nothing that fits, Tommy. What does he want in London?”

“Search me,” said Tommy Owen. “I say, Fortune, when Russia went pop some blokes must have laid their hands on a lot of good stuff. I suppose you fellows at Scotland Yard know where it’s gone?”

“I wonder if your friend Kuyper’s been dealing in jewels.”

Tommy Owen looked wary. “Don’t that fit, old bean? There’s a blighter that’s been busy with brother Kuyper blossomed out with a rare old black pearl in his tiepin. They used to tell me the good black pearls went to Russia.”

“What is Kuyper? A Hun?”

“I wouldn’t bet on it. He might be anything. Lean beggar, oldish, trim little beard, very well groomed, talks English well, says he’s a Dutchman. You could see him yourself. He has offices in that ghastly new block in Mawdleyn Lane.”

“Thanks very much, Thomas,” said Mr. Fortune.

“Oh, not a bit. Sorry I don’t know anything about the blighter,” said Tommy Owen, and Mr. Fortune laughed.

As a taxi took him home to Wimpole Street he considered his evidence. The mysterious Kuyper said he was Dutch. The vanished Witt also said he was Dutch. Kuyper said he was selling Russian jewels. Witt also dealt in jewels. Mr. Fortune went home and telephoned to Lomas that Julius Kuyper of Mawdleyn Lane should be watched, and by men of experience.

Even over the telephone the voice of Lomas expressed surprise. “Kuyper?” it repeated. “What is the reference, Fortune? The Wilton case. Quite so. You did say Julius Kuyper? But he’s political. He’s a Bolshevik.”

Reggie also felt some surprise but he did not show it.

“Some of your men who’ve moved in good criminal society,” he said firmly. “Rush it, old thing.”

After breakfast on the next day but one he was going to the telephone to talk to Lomas when the thing rang at him. “Is that Fortune?” said Lomas’s voice. “Speaking? The great Mr. Fortune! I looks towards you, Reginald. I likewise bows. Come right on.”

Mr. Fortune found Lomas with Superintendent Bell. They lay back in their chairs and looked at him. Lomas started up, came to him and walked round him, eyeglass up.

“What is this?” said Mr. Fortune. “Dumb crambo?”

“Admiration,” Lomas sighed. “Reverence. Awe. How do you do these things, Fortune? You look only human, not to say childlike. Yet you have us all beat. You arrive while we’re still looking for the way.”

“I wouldn’t have said it was a case for Mr. Fortune, either,” said Bell.

“No flowers, by request. Don’t be an owl, Lomas. Who is Kuyper?”

Lomas sat down again. “I hoped you were going to tell us that,” he said. “What in the world made you go for Kuyper?”

“He calls himself Dutch and so did Witt. He deals in jewels and so did Witt. And I fancy he set the ‘Daily Watchman’ howling that Wilton must stay in prison.”

“And if you will kindly make sense of that for me I shall be obliged,” said Lomas.

“It doesn’t make sense. I know that. Hang it all, you must do something for yourselves. Justify your existence, Lomas. Who is Kuyper?”

“The political branch have had their eye on him for some time. He’s been selling off Russian jewels. They believe he’s a Bolshevik.”

“That don’t help us,” Reggie murmured.

“No. The connexion of Wilton with Bolshevism isn’t what you’d call obvious. I did think you were hunting the wild, wild goose, Reginald. All my apologies. None of our men recognized Kuyper. But one of them did recognize Mr. Witt. Mr. Witt is now something in Kuyper’s office. Marvellous, Reginald. How do you do it?”

“My head,” said Reggie Fortune. “Oh, my head! Kuyper’s a Bolshevik agent and Kuyper employs a man to put Wilton out of the way. It’s a bad dream.”

“Yes, it’s not plausible. Not one of your more lucid cases, Fortune.”

“I had thought,” said Bell diffidently, “if Dr. Wilton happened to get to know of some Bolshevik plot, Mr. Fortune, they would be wanting to put him out.”

“They would—in a novel,” Reggie shook his head. “But hang it all, Wilton don’t know that he ever knew anything.”

“P’r’aps he’s a bit of a Bolshevik himself, sir,” said Bell.

Lomas laughed. “Bell has a turn for melodrama.”

“Yes. Yes, there is a lot of melodrama in the world. But somehow I don’t fancy Kuyper, Witt and Co. play it. I think I’ll go and have a little talk with the firm.”

“You?” Lomas stared at him.

“Not alone, I reckon, sir.” Bell stood up.

“Well, you come and chaperon me. Yes, I want to look at ’em, Lomas. Wilton’s a medical man, you know. I want to see the patients, too.”

“You can try it,” Lomas said dubiously. “You realize we have nothing definite against Witt, and nothing at all against Kuyper. And I’m not sure that Kuyper hasn’t smelt a rat. He’s been staying at the Olympian. He was there on Tuesday night, but last night our men lost him.”

“Come on, Bell,” said Mr. Fortune.

Outside the big new block in Mawdleyn Lane Superintendent Bell stopped a moment and looked round. A man crossed the road and made a sign as he vanished into a doorway

“He’s in, sir,” Bell said, and they went up to the offices of Mr. Julius Kuyper.

A pert young woman received them. They wanted to see Mr. Kuyper? By appointment? Oh, Mr. Kuyper never saw anyone except by appointment.

“He’ll see me,” said Bell, and gave her a card. She looked him over impudently and vanished. Another young woman peered round the glass screen at them.

“Sorry.” The first young woman came briskly back. “Mr. Kuyper’s not in. Better write and ask for an appointment.”

“That won’t do. Who is in?” said Bell heavily.

“Don’t you bully me!” she cried.

“You don’t want to get into trouble, do you?” Bell frowned down at her. “You go in there and say Superintendent Bell is waiting to see Mr. Witt.”

“We haven’t got any Mr. Witt.”

“You do as you’re told.”

She went. She was gone a long time. A murmur of voices was audible. She came out again, looking flustered. “Well, what about it?” said Bell.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said. A door slammed, a bell rang. She made a nervous exclamation and turned to answer it. Bell went first and Reggie on his heels.

In the inner room an oldish man stood smoothing his hair. He was flushed and at the sight of Bell he cried out: “But you intrude, sir.”

“Ah, here’s our old friend, Mr. Witt,” Bell smiled. “I should——”

“There is some mistake. You are wrong, sir. What is your name? Mr. Superintendent—my name is Siegel.”

“I dare say it is. Then why did you call yourself Witt?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“I don’t forget faces. I should know you anywhere. You’re the Mr. Witt who prosecuted Dr. Horace Wilton. Come, come, the game’s up now.”

“What do you mean by that, sir?”

“Time to tell the truth,” said Reggie sweetly, “time you began to think of yourself, isn’t it? We know all about the evidence in the Wilton burglary. Why did you do it, Mr. Witt? It wasn’t safe, you know.”

“What do you want?”

“Well, where’s your friend Mr. Kuyper? We had better have him in.”

“Mr. Kuyper has gone out, sir.”

Reggie laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so. You’re not doing yourself justice. I don’t suppose you wanted to trap Dr. Wilton. You’d better consider your position. What is Mr. Kuyper’s little game with you?”

Mr. Witt looked nervously round the room. “You—you mustn’t—I mean we can’t talk here,” he said. “The girls will be listening.”

“Oh, send the girls out to tea,” said Bell.

“No. I can’t do that. I had rather come with you, Mr. Superintendent. I would rather indeed.”

“Come on then.”

Mr. Witt, who was shaking with nervous fear, caught up his hat and coat. The farther door of the room was flung open. Two pistol shots were fired. As Reggie sprang at the door it was slammed in his face and locked. Mr. Witt went down in a heap. Bell dashed through the outer office into the corridor. Reggie knelt by Mr. Witt.

“Kuyper,” Mr. Witt gasped. “Kuyper.”

“I know. I know. We’ll get him yet. Where’s he gone?”

“His yacht,” Mr. Witt gasped. “Yacht at Gravesend. He had it ready.” He groaned and writhed. He was hit in the shoulder and stomach.

Reggie did what he could for the man, and went to the telephone. He had finished demanding an ambulance when Bell came back breathless, with policemen in uniform at his heels.

“The swine,” Bell gasped. “He’s off, sir. Must have gone down the other staircase into Bull Court. We had a man there but he wouldn’t know there was anything up, he’d only follow. Pray God he don’t lose him. They lost him last night.”

“Send these girls away,” said Mr. Fortune. “Let the constables keep the door. I want to use the telephone.” And when the ambulance had come and taken Mr. Witt, happily unconscious at last, to hospital, he was still talking into the telephone. “Is that clear?” he concluded. “All right. Goodbye.” He hung up the receiver. “Come on, Bell. It’s Gravesend now. This is our busy day.”

“Gravesend?” The superintendent stared.

But it was into a teashop that Reggie plunged when they reached the street. He came out with large paper bags just as a big car turned painfully into Mawdleyn Lane. “Good man,” he smiled upon the chauffeur. “Gravesend police station. And let her out when you can.” With his mouth full he expounded to Superintendent Bell his theory of the evasion of Mr. Kuyper.

As the car drew up in Gravesend a man in plain clothes came out of the police station. “Scotland Yard, sir?” Bell pulled a card out. “Inspector’s down on the beach now. I was to take you to him.”

By the pier the inspector was waiting. He hurried up to their car. “Got him?” said Bell.

“He’s off. You didn’t give us much time. But he’s been here. A man answering to your description hired a motor yacht—cutter with auxiliary engine—six weeks ago. It was rather noticed, being an unusual time of year to start yachting. He’s been down odd times and slept aboard. He seems to have slept aboard last night. I can’t find anyone who’s seen him here to-day. But there’s a longshoreman swears he saw a Tilbury boat go alongside the Cyrilla—that’s his yacht—a while since, and the Cyrilla’s away.”

“Have you got a fast boat ready for us?”

“At the pier head, sir. Motor launch.”

“Good work,” Reggie smiled. And they hurried on board.

“What’s the job, sir?” The captain of the launch touched his cap.

“Dig out after the Cyrilla. You know her, don’t you?”

“I do so. But I reckon she ain’t in sight. What’s the course?”

“Down stream. She’ll be making for the Dutch coast. Are you good for a long run?”

“Surely. And I reckon it will be a long run. She’s fast, is Cyrilla. Wind her up, Jim,” and the launch began to throb through the water.

Mr. Fortune retired under the hood and lit his pipe, and Bell followed him. “He’s smart, isn’t he, sir, our Mr. Kuyper? His yacht at Gravesend and he comes down by Tilbury. That’s neat work.”

“Don’t rub it in, Bell. I know I ought to have thought of Tilbury.”

Bell stared at him. “Good Lord, Mr. Fortune, I’m not blaming you, sir.”

“I am,” said Reggie. “It’s an untidy case, Bell. Well, well. I wonder if I’ve missed anything more?”

“I don’t know what you’ve missed, sir. I know I wouldn’t like to be on the run if you were after me.”

Reggie looked at the large, man with a gleam of amusement. “It would be rather joyful, Bell,” he chuckled, and was solemn again. “No. I am not happy. Je n’ai pas de courage. I want Mr. Kuyper.”

It was a grey day. The Essex flats lay dim and sombre. The heights on the southern shore were blurred. Yet they could see far out to the Nore. An east wind was whipping the flood tide into tiny waves, through which the launch clove, making, after the manner of her kind, a great show of speed, leaving the tramps that chunked outward bound as though they lay at anchor.

“Do you see her yet?” Reggie asked the captain.

“Maybe that’s her,” he pointed to a dim line on the horizon beyond the lightship, a sailless mast, if it was anything. “Maybe not.” He spat over the side.

“Are you gaining on her?”

“I reckon we’re coming up, sir.”

“What’s that thing doing?” Reggie pointed to a long low black craft near the Nore.

“Destroyer, sir. Engines stopped.”

“Run down to her, will you? How does one address the Navy, Bell? I feel shy. Ask him if he’s the duty destroyer of the Nore Command, will you?”

“Good Lord, sir,” said Bell.

The captain of the launch hailed. “Duty destroyer, sir?”

“Aye, aye. Scotland Yard launch? Come alongside.”

“Thank God for the Navy, as the soldier said,” Mr. Fortune murmured. “Perhaps it will be warmer on board her.”

“I say, sir, did you order a destroyer out?”

“Oh, I asked Lomas to turn out the Navy. I thought we might want ’em.”

Superintendent Bell gazed at him. “And you say you forget things,” he said. “Witt’s shot and all in a minute you have all this in your head.”

They climbed a most unpleasant ladder. A young lieutenant received them. “You gentlemen got a job of work for us?”

“A motor yacht, cutter rig, name Cyrilla, left Gravesend an hour or two ago, probably making for the Dutch coast. There’s a man on board that’s badly wanted.”

“Can do,” the lieutenant smiled and ran up to the bridge. “Starboard five. Half ahead both.” He spoke into a voice pipe. “You’d better come up here,” he called to them. “We’ll whack her up as we go.”

The destroyer began to quiver gently to the purr of the turbines. Reggie cowered under the wind screen. The speed grew and grew and the destroyer sat down on her stern and on either side white waves rushed from the high sharp bow. “Who is your friend on the yacht?” the lieutenant smiled.

“His last is attempted murder. But that was only this morning.”

“You fellows don’t lose much time,” said the lieutenant with more respect. “You seem to want him bad.”

“I could bear to see him,” said Reggie. “He interests me as a medical man.”

“Medical?” the lieutenant stared at him.

“Quite a lot of crime is medical,” said Reggie.

The lieutenant gave it up and again asked for more speed and began to use his binoculars. “There’s a cutter rig,” he pointed at something invisible. “Not under sail. Laying a course for Flushing. That’s good enough, what?”

The destroyer came up fast. A white hull was revealed to the naked eye. The lieutenant spoke to his signalman and flags fluttered above the bridge. “Not answered. D’ye think your friend’ll put up a scrap?”

“I dare say he will, if his crew will stand for it.”

“Praise God,” said the lieutenant. “Will they have any arms?”

“Pistols, likely,” said Bell.

“Well! She is Cyrilla.” He picked up a megaphone and roared through it. “The cutter! Cyrilla! Stop your engine!”

There was some movement on the yacht’s deck. She did stop her engine or slow. A shot was heard. She started her engine again and again stopped. A man ran aft and held up his hand. The destroyer drew abeam and the lieutenant said what occurred to him of yachts which did not obey Navy signals. There was no answer. A little knot of men on the Cyrilla gazed at the destroyer.

“You fellows going aboard her? Got guns? I’ll give you an armed boat’s crew.”

Behind the destroyer’s sub-lieutenant Bell and Reggie came to the yacht’s deck. “Where’s the captain? Don’t you know enough to read signals?” Thus the sub-lieutenant began.

“Where’s Mr. Kuyper?” said Bell.

“We didn’t understand your signals, sir.” The captain licked his lips. “Don’t know anything about a Mr. Kuyper. We’ve got a Mr. Hotten, a Dutch gentleman. He’s my owner, as you might say.”

“Where is he?”

“Down the engine-room. It was him fired at the engineer to make him start her up again when I ’ad stopped. I laid him out with a spanner.”

“Bring him up,” Bell said.

A slim spruce body was laid on the deck, precisely the Julius Kuyper of Tommy Owen’s description. Reggie knelt down beside him.

“He ain’t dead, is he?” said the yacht’s captain anxiously.

But the stertorous breath of Mr. Kuyper could be heard. “My only aunt,” Reggie muttered.

“What’s the matter, sir?”

“Man hasn’t got a heart. This is very unusual. Good Lord! Heart well over on the right side. Heterotaxy very marked. Quite unusual. Ah! That’s more to the point. He’s had an operation on the thyroid gland. Yes. Just so.” He smiled happily.

“What was that word you said, sir?”

“Heterotaxy? Oh, it only means he’s got his things all over on the wrong side.”

“Then I know him!” Bell cried. “I thought I knew the look of him, as old as he is now. It’s Lawton, sir, Lawton of the big bank frauds. He went off with fifty thousand or more. Before your time, but you must have heard of it. Did a clear getaway.”

“And that’s that,” said Reggie. “Now we know.”

******

Some days afterwards the Hon. Sidney Lomas called on Mr. Fortune, who was at the moment making a modest supper of devilled sole. “Did you clear it up?” he said.

“Try that champagne. It’s young but has distinction. Oh yes. Dr. Wilton quite agrees with me. A faulty thyroid gland is the root of the trouble.”

“I don’t want to hear about Mr. Kuyper Lawton’s diseases. I——”

“My dear fellow! But that is the whole case. Mr. Kuyper-Lawton is undoubtedly a man of great ability. But there was always a cachexis of the thyroid gland. This caused a certain mental instability. Unsound judgment. Violence of temper. It’s quite common.”

“Is it though?” said Lomas. “And why was he violent to poor Wilton?”

“Well, Lawton got clean away after his bank frauds, as you know——”

“I know all about Lawton. He lived on the plunder in Holland as Adrian Hotten and flourished till the war. Then he lost most of his money backing Germany to win. In the end of 1917 he went off to Russia. This year he turned up in London as Julius Kuyper, talking about Russian finance and selling Russian jewels.”

“Quite so. Well, in February he was in a motor accident in Cavendish Square. A lorry hit his car and he was thrown out and stunned. The unfortunate Wilton was passing and gave him first-aid, and discovered that his heart was on the wrong side. He came to under Wilton’s hands. I suppose Wilton showed a little too much interest. Anyhow, Mr. Kuyper saw that the malformation which would identify him with Lawton of the bank frauds was known to the young doctor. Well, he kept his head then. He was very grateful. He asked for Wilton’s card. And Wilton never heard any more of him. But Wilton was interested in this striking case of heterotaxy. He noted the number of the car, found the garage from which it was hired and went round to ask who the man was. They wouldn’t tell him, but the chauffeur, I suppose, told Mr. Kuyper the doctor was asking after him. He sent Witt to take a flat over Wilton’s and find out what Wilton was up to. I take it Mr. Kuyper was doing mighty good business in London and didn’t want to run away. He needn’t have bothered—but that’s the man all over, brilliantly ingenious and no judgment. That thyroid of his! Wilton had come to know the local detective-inspector, that poor chap who committed suicide. I’m mighty sorry for that fellow, Lomas. He was so keen against Wilton because he was afraid of not doing his duty when he liked the man—and then he found he’d blundered into giving false evidence against his friend. I don’t wonder he chose to die.”

“Conscience makes fools of us all,” said Lomas.

“Yes. Yes. Poor beggar. And no wonder Wilton was bitter against him. Well, Kuyper decided that Wilton with his curiosity and his friend in the police wasn’t safe at large. First they tried to ship him out of the country and he wouldn’t go. So they put up the burglary. I suppose Witt or Witt’s friend the sham Dutch journalist is a Hun. That accounts for the Rauch-tabak and the German keys.”

“Lawton-Kuyper has done a lot of business with Germany himself.”

“Yes. He ought to have been on the great General Staff. The right type of mind. One of our native Prussians. An able man—a very able man. If his thyroid had been healthy!”

CASE IV