Casting back in his mind, he recollected something else about Du Pine—his dramatic introduction of the name of Fanshawe at the inquest. Was it a blind? If so, it was a singularly unskilful one. For he must have known that the police would not be long in discovering that James had been vouched for by the company a full month before Fanshawe was released from prison. That was yet another argument against attributing the authorship of the letter to him. Had Du Pine said the truth about Fanshawe’s visit to the office? Well, Fanshawe could help to clear that up himself. But why blurt the name out in the most public way possible, instead of quietly informing the police as any reasonable man would have done? It was almost as if he wanted to concentrate attention on Fanshawe and away from himself. Why? Or alternatively, perhaps he genuinely believed that Fanshawe had taken vengeance on Ballantine, and feared a like fate for himself in return for his share in the events of five years ago. On the whole, that theory seemed most plausible, but it left the mystery of the letter as deep as ever.

“What a fool I am!” Mallett said to himself. “Why don’t I practise what I preach? Here I am, theorizing without the facts, when a simple examination of the office typewriters will give me all I want—that is, if the girl who took the letter down has any memory.”

He deliberately relaxed, and let his thoughts wander. Links, he reflected vaguely, missing links—the case was full of them. And he was going to see Fanshawe tomorrow. And the only link between Fanshawe and James was—Harper of all people! Fanshawe had been a friend of Harper’s father, and Harper had found James his house—it seemed remote enough in all conscience! The personalities in the drama began to flit through his tiring brain like colours in a kaleidoscope. The speed of the car, from being a stimulant, became a narcotic. He dozed. Presently he found himself speaking to Harper who vainly tried to tie a bow, and explained that if he didn’t get it straight he would be murdered, while Lord Bernard shouted in his ear: “You mustn’t be over-dressed! It’s a crime to be over-dressed!”

He jerked himself awake. Lord Bernard was still speaking, but what he said was: “We’re just coming into London. Where can I drop you?”

15
MR. COLIN JAMES

Friday, November 20th

“Are you sure there were no other machines in the office?” Mallett asked Frant.

It was Friday morning, and they sat together in the inspector’s room at Scotland Yard, at a table littered with little typewritten slips.

“Absolutely,” was the reply. “They were all of the same make—big office typewriters, except for a small portable in Du Pine’s room. That was a ‘Diadem’.”