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deferential posture that this young man was of superior rank. “Hello, Wilkins,” he said to the constable. “What’s the matter here?”

      “We’ve got a dead body in the next room, Sergeant,” said the constable. “Bullet wound in the ’ead, but these gentlemen say they never ’eard a shot.”

      “Well, we’ll have to see about that,” said the detective, stepping through the door into the séance room. The rest of us began trooping after him, but he stopped abruptly a couple of paces into the room and turned around to face us—as it happened, Mr. Clemens was directly in front of him. “The body’s been moved,” said the young detective, waving an admonitory finger. From his expression, it might have been a crime equal to the actual shooting.

      “Of course we moved him,” said Sir Denis, who had just cleared the doorway. “There was a chance he might live, and we wanted to get him into a more comfortable position. I fail to see the harm in that.”

      The detective looked Sir Denis up and down, then wrinkled his nose fastidiously. “Don’t see any harm, do you? For your information, you’ve just addled any clues about how he fell, or which way he was facing when he was hit. And the lot of you have been smoking those stinking pipes in here, as well.”

      “You’re damn right,” said Mr. Clemens, bristling. “Didn’t know there was a law against an American smoking his pipe anywhere he damn well pleased. And who the hell are you?”

      “Detective Sergeant Peter Coleman of the Criminal Investigation Division, New Scotland Yard,” said the man, glowering at my employer. “There may be no law against smoking your pipe, but I wish there were. Now we’ve no way to tell which room the gun was fired from. Half the evidence is already gone, no thanks to you. The chief inspector won’t like this one bit when he arrives—which should be any moment, now. Can anyone tell me how long it has been since the shooting?”

      “Not quite an hour,” said Sir Denis, stepping forward. “See here, Mr. Coleman, I know the smell of gunpowder as well as any man in England, and I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that there was no odor—and no report, and no flash, either.”

      “So you say,” said Coleman, looking down his nose at Sir Denis. “You may even be right, but I’d rather trust the scientific evidence—which you lot have gone and obliterated without a thought. Or, just possibly, you might have done it on purpose.”

      “Young man, I resent your implication,” said Sir Denis. “Do you know to whom you are speaking?”

      “To a homicide suspect,” said the detective. “Has anyone left the premises since the shooting?”

      “No one’s left since I arrived,” said Constable Wilkins. “I can’t say what ’appened before that, Sergeant.”

      “Mr. McPhee and I went out to notify the constable,” I volunteered. “Other than that, I believe everyone has stayed here the entire time.”

      “McPhee, eh?” The detective turned to the constable. “I assume you’ve noted down everyone’s name, Wilkins.”

      The constable swallowed. “No, sir, I’ve ’ardly ’ad the chance. You got ’ere so quick, I’d just begun—”

      “I see,” said the detective, tight-mouthed. He pulled a small notebook and a pencil out of his pocket. “Well, we’ll just have to start at the beginning and do everything properly. You there, what’s your name and place of residence?” He addressed this question to my employer.

      “Samuel Langhorne Clemens, of Hartford, Connecticut,” said my employer. “That’s in America, or was the last time I checked.”

      “Are you attempting to be facetious?” said the detective. His expression was stony. “I don’t advise it—this is a very serious matter you’re involved in, I’ll have you know. Anything you say can be held against you.”

      “Really? I hardly noticed how serious it was, I was paying so much attention to that dead man over there,” said Mr. Clemens, puffing vigorously on his pipe. “But I hope you won’t hold it against me if I try to be facetious. It’s what I do for a living, and they tell me I’m pretty good at it, by and large. Of course, being English, you might not be able to tell the difference.”

      “Exactly what do you mean by that?” the detective began, but he was interrupted by a knock on the outer door. “That’ll be the doctor, likely enough, or maybe the chief,” he said. “Be a good fellow, Wilkins, and see who it is.”

      “Aye, Sergeant,” said the constable, moving to the door. After a moment, I heard the door open and the constable said, “ ’Ullo, Chief Inspector. We’ve got quite a puzzle ’ere.”

      “It won’t be such a great puzzle, once I’ve had a look at it,” said the new arrival, striding energetically into the apartment. He was a short, athletically built man—something in his face reminded me of a ferret, but his manner was all bulldog. He didn’t stop to remove his hat or overcoat, but came straight into the inner room where we were all standing.

      “I’m glad you’re here, Chief Inspector,” said Sergeant Coleman, deferentially, although I noticed he looked askance at the new arrival’s pipe, which gave off a particularly noxious odor. “I’ve begun interviewing the suspects, sir.”

      “Good man, good man,” said the new arrival. “I’ll just have a look around, and we’ll soon know what’s what.” He walked over to the sofa where the body lay, knelt down, and grasped it by the chin to turn the face toward him. He looked intently at the wound. “This man’s been shot,” he said, accusingly.

      “Yes, sir, so we believe,” said Sergeant Coleman.

      “Well, then, where’s the gun?” asked the chief inspector, standing up and peering round the room. “I can’t say I’ve ever yet seen a man shot without a gun, and I am no spring chicken.”

      “We haven’t found the weapon yet,” Coleman replied.

      “Well, then, either it’s hidden or it’s been spirited away,” said the chief inspector. “Where have you looked?”

      “Well, sir, I’d just arrived, and I thought it better to get the suspects’ names and—”

      “Aye, so you told me. Well, you go ahead with that business.” He stopped and looked at the rest of us for the first time. “Here now, I know that face,” he said, staring at my employer. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

      “I reckon you might have,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ve been to London a couple of times before, and sometimes they put my picture in the newspapers and magazines.”

      “Do they, now? And what have you done to merit that?” asked the chief inspector. He was still wearing his coat and hat, and his pipe was filling the room with fumes even stronger than those coming from the other gentlemen’s pipes.

      “Oh, a couple of things,” said Mr. Clemens. “Told the truth about kings and queens, and stood up against injustice, and took some people down a peg when I thought they needed it. Nothing anybody else couldn’t have done, if they took a mind to.”

      “Now I’ve got it,” said the chief inspector, brightly. “I did see you in one of the magazines. You’re that American writer fellow, Train, Twain, something like that. Pleased to meet you—Lestrade’s the name, Chief Inspector Lestrade.” He pronounced it to rhyme with played.

      “Always a pleasure to meet an admirer,” said Mr. Clemens, shaking Lestrade’s proffered hand. Then his expression turned serious as he continued: “But tell me, Inspector; my wife and daughter and some other ladies—including that poor fellow’s widow—are in the next room, there. I reckon they’d be a lot better off in their own homes. How soon do you think they’ll be able to go?”

      “Ladies, eh?” said Lestrade, following Mr. Clemens’s gesture toward the closed door. “Well, we certainly don’t want to keep them here any longer than we need to, Mr. Train.