“Deceased has been identified?”

“Yes, sir. Rudi Scherz. Swiss Nationality. Employed at the Royal Spa Hotel, Medenham Wells, as a receptionist. If you agree, sir, I thought I’d take the Royal Spa Hotel first, and go out to Chipping Cleghorn afterwards. Sergeant Fletcher is out there now. He’ll see the bus people and then go on to the house.”

Rydesdale nodded approval.

The door opened, and the Chief Constable looked up.

“Come in, Henry,” he said. “We’ve got something here that’s a little out of the ordinary.”

Sir Henry Clithering, ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard, came in with slightly raised eyebrows. He was a tall, distinguished-looking elderly man.

“It may appeal to even your blasé palate,” went on Rydesdale.

“I was never blasé,” said Sir Henry indignantly.

“The latest idea,” said Rydesdale, “is to advertise one’s murders beforehand. Show Sir Henry that advertisement, Craddock.”

“The North Benham News and Chipping Cleghorn Gazette,” said Sir Henry. “Quite a mouthful.” He read the half inch of print indicated by Craddock’s finger. “H’m, yes, somewhat unusual.”

“Any line on who inserted this advertisement?” asked Rydesdale.

“By the description, sir, it was handed in by Rudi Scherz himself—on Wednesday.”

“Nobody questioned it? The person who accepted it didn’t think it odd?”

“The adenoidal blonde who receives the advertisements is quite incapable of thinking, I should say, sir. She just counted the words and took the money.”

“What was the idea?” asked Sir Henry.

“Get a lot of the locals curious,” suggested Rydesdale. “Get them all together at a particular place at a particular time, then hold them up and relieve them of their spare cash and valuables. As an idea, it’s not without originality.”

“What sort of a place is Chipping Cleghorn?” asked Sir Henry.

“A large sprawling picturesque village. Butcher, baker, grocer, quite a good antique shop—two tea shops. Self-consciously a beauty spot. Caters for the motoring tourist. Also highly residential. Cottages formerly lived in by agricultural labourers now converted and lived in by elderly spinsters and retired couples. A certain amount of building done round about in Victorian times.”

“I know,” said Sir Henry. “Nice old Pussies and retired Colonels. Yes, if they noticed that advertisement they’d all come sniffing round at 6:30 to see what was up. Lord, I wish I had my own particular old Pussy here. Wouldn’t she like to get her nice ladylike teeth into this. Right up her street it would be.”

“Who’s your own particular Pussy, Henry? An aunt?”

“No,” Sir Henry sighed. “She’s no relation.” He said reverently: “She’s just the finest detective God ever made. Natural genius cultivated in a suitable soil.”

He turned upon Craddock.

“Don’t you despise the old Pussies in this village of yours, my boy,” he said. “In case this turns out to be a high-powered mystery, which I don’t suppose for a moment it will, remember that an elderly unmarried woman who knits and gardens is streets ahead of any detective sergeant. She can tell you what might have happened and what ought to have happened and even what actually did happen! And she can tell you why it happened!”