The Amazing Martin Brett. Ernest Dudley

a quiet little chat is indicated,” he said, while Ward was recovering from his surprise, and led the way over to a secluded corner behind the wide staircase. There was a sudden air of urgency about him which made me give him a sideways glance.

      “First,” he said briskly, “hasn’t it struck you as slightly incongruous your being here tonight?”

      Ward caught the unmistakable implication behind the question. “You mean him inviting me—of all people?” And went on: “Well he phoned and said he was prepared to forget what happened, let bygones be bygones and all that, if I felt the same way about it. He wanted to bury the hatchet, he said, and would I come to this party and we’d shake hands over a drink. So—well—I don’t go in for bearing malice and here I am.”

      “You didn’t think this idea might be to bury the hatchet in you?” Mr. Brett said, and the other looked at him sharply.

      “What d’you mean?”

      “Never mind,” Mr. Brett waved the idea aside. “So you’ve been having a drink and Farringdon Tisdall’s been magnanimous all over the library. Quite like old times, eh?”

      Ward grinned. “Roughly that,” he said. “He asked after Lydia—my wife you know.” He hesitated and said: “He and Lydia were—”

      “I know,” cut in Mr. Brett.

      “Matter of fact, it was quite like old times.” And he laughed, as if something had amused him. “He even asked me to show him an old handkerchief trick that used to peeve him because he could never do it.”

      “What handkerchief trick?”

      “Tie it so it looks like a rabbit. He always made a hash of it. Even when he tried it just now.”

      I noticed the handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket looked a little crumpled.

      Mr. Brett’s face suddenly froze. Then:

      “I’m interested in tricks,” he said softly. “Show.”

      Raymond Ward smiled and proceeded to oblige. As he pulled the handkerchief out something slipped from its folds and lay in the palm of his hand. He stared at it stupidly.

      “Some trick,” murmured Mr. Brett as the Crimson Lake ruby gleamed up at us. He grabbed it. “Wait here,” he snapped at the other, who was still glassy-eyed as if he’d been kicked smartly in the stomach by a recalcitrant mule, and was gone.

      I managed to catch up with him as he reached the library and followed him in, to be brought up with a sickening shock. Farringdon Tisdall hadn’t in my opinion made a particularly pretty picture before, but now slumped over his writing desk with his head bashed in, he was a ghastly sight. Mr. Brett had already crossed to him.

      “Is he dead?” I asked, my voice sounding as if it belonged to someone else.

      He nodded grimly, glanced at a hefty-looking ornament—which could have done the job—sprawled on the desk amongst scattered papers and capsized inkstand from which green ink had spilled and was staining the gorgeous carpet. He jabbed a bell push, and then I followed his look across to where the wall safe gaped wide-open. My brain was spinning round in crazy circles as I tried to make sense of what must have happened. It seemed fantastic to believe Raymond Ward could have done this terrible thing, yet— My bewilderment was momentarily interrupted as Selby hurried into the room. He stared unbelievingly at the figure at the desk, then swayed and seemed as if he was about to collapse, only Mr. Brett brought him up with a jerk.

      “Get the police,” he said curtly.

      “But—but a doctor?” the secretary gasped as he moved like a sleepwalker to the phone.

      “Needn’t worry about that for the moment. Police.”

      Selby mumbled incoherently and lifted the receiver. Mr. Brett stared across at him through a puff of cigarette smoke and said slowly: “I’ll talk to ’em. And you’d better make it good.”

      My heart seemed to stop in that dreadful silence as Selby blinked over the receiver and mouthed: “What—what d’you mean?”

      “Only you knew that combination beside Tisdall. Trouble was, when you opened the safe you were too late. He’d already planted it on young Ward.” He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out the Crimson Lake. “That’s what you were after, wasn’t it?”

      Selby’s face was drained putty-colour. “I—I haven’t been in here since Ward,” he rasped.

      “That won’t do either,” Mr. Brett smiled bleakly. “Look at your shirt cuff.”

      The other sucked in his breath and peered short-sightedly at his hand clutching the phone. The cuff showing above it was stained with ink bright green.

      * * * * * * *

      “Of course,” said Mr. Brett in the taxi later, “Selby planned the whole thing with the idea suspicion would fall on Ward. The mere fact Ward hadn’t the ruby on him wouldn’t necessarily clear him—police could argue he’d hidden it to collect later. But what Selby didn’t know was Tisdall had invited his ex-secretary for sole purpose of planting the ruby on him, then accusing him of theft.”

      “Motive: revenge?”

      “Just that. Tisdall himself concocted an anonymous warning as excuse to have me on the spot when his scheme went into operation. I confirmed my earlier hunch on that score when I took a peek at his papers in the library. Remember the financial sheet, type identical with gummed letters of note? Tisdall had an issue of that paper, with bits cut out of it.”

      I murmured something appropriately appreciative of Mr. Brett’s talents. Mr. Brett, who was beginning to wallow in the sounds from his own vocal chords again, went on: “He planted the stone when Ward was doing his handkerchief trick. Selby, the moment the boy goes, pops into library, socks Tisdall, and then discovers he’s done the dirty deed for nothing. No ruby. So he beats it. The rest....” And he allowed the rest to melt into cigarette smoke.

      I remembered something. “What about your cheque?” I asked. “Now Farringdon Tisdall’s no longer with us?”

      Mr. Brett smiled at me derisively from the darkness of the taxi. “Cashed it this morning. When I went out to get the papers. Just an idea I had something inconvenient might happen to my client.”