get hold of some pieces of evidence which would give him a clue as to their whereabouts. If only, unknown to them, he could start all square knowing them even as they knew him. He was under no delusions: it would be sheer luck if he did it. But Jim Maitland was a believer in luck, and it was a hopeful portent that as he entered his club the clock showed half-past five. No longer did the law interfere with the consumption of alcohol.
The first person he ran into was Percy, who looked at him in some surprise.
"By Jove! dear old lad," he burbled, "you look a bit under the weather—what! The right eye resembles a poached egg: the general bearing hardly of that martial order which is the hall-mark of our family."
"Dry up," said Jim. "It's the result of that devastating performance of yours. Look here, young Percy, what is the name of the road in which that house is? Where you drove me last night."
"Haven't an earthly, old fruit. I mean, who could be expected to know the name of a road in Hampstead?"
"But you've often been there, you blithering ass."
"I absolutely agree, dear heart. Absolutely. Times and again, and then some. I could find my way there in the dark with my eyes shut, but I couldn't tell you the name of the bally road to save my life."
Jim regarded him dispassionately.
"Your claim to continual existence grows more microscopic daily," he remarked at length. "However, it is you who will suffer. At eleven o'clock to-night you will call for me here in your car. You will then drive me to the scene of your ridiculous entertainment last night. After that you can go and play by yourself."
"But, my dear man," spluttered Percy, "what the deuce do you want me to do that for? None of the birds will be there this evening."
"A fact for which one can but give pious thanks to high heaven," said Jim, lighting a cigarette.
"Then why do you want me to drive you there?" persisted his cousin.
"So that I may mark it in my mind as a spot to avoid in the future," said Jim.
"Cut it out, old lad," cried Percy. "Joking apart, what is the blinking game?"
Jim Maitland stared at him thoughtfully. And after a while an idea, engendered perhaps by his conversation with Judy Draycott, began to take root in his mind. Here in the shape of his cousin was a test case. What lay behind that vacuous exterior? Supposing things did begin to move, how would Percy behave in a tight corner? And moved by a sudden impulse he signed to him to come closer.
"I am about to order you a drink, young feller," he said, "and while you put your nose in it I am going to tell you a little story. But before I begin I want your word of honour that what I say to you goes no further without my permission."
"You have it," said Percy quietly.
"After I left you last night, whilst strolling along to get the foul smell of those kippers out of my nostrils, I heard a revolver shot. It came from a house I was passing. Impelled by my usual curiosity I broke into the house, which I found to be a gambling den. Amongst other odds and ends I found a murdered man lying about: he'd been shot through the heart. Shortly afterwards I was doped, and I've spent to-day in Streatham police station."
"Go to blazes," laughed his cousin. "If that's your idea of a leg pull it is pretty poor, laddie."
"It happens to be the truth, Percy," said Jim gravely. "Now listen to me."
Without embroidery he told his cousin the whole story, omitting only one point—his strong suspicion that the murdered man was Judy Draycott's brother. That and all the implications that might follow with it, was not at the moment a thing he wanted to pass on to anyone. And by the time he had finished Percy's eyes were nearly goggling out of his head.
"But how perfectly priceless," he spluttered ecstatically. "Of course, old lad, you can count me in. Your idea is to go and have another look at the house to-night. Do a bit of amateur detective work. And, by Jove! that reminds me. There is a gambling place up in those parts: I've heard of it myself. Bloke in the club here told me about it—Teddy d'Acres."
He hailed a passing waiter.
"Is Lord d'Acres in the club?" he demanded.
"His lordship is playing cards, sir," said the man.
"I'll get hold of him, Jim," cried Percy, getting up.
"Not a word, don't forget," said the older man. "Just get the details of the place: nothing more."
"You leave it to me, laddie."
He rushed off to return in a couple of minutes with the information that Teddy was just finishing a rubber and would join them at once.
"Tell him," said Jim, "that I'm on the look out for a gamble, and want a straight place."
"It's a pity," opined his lordship, a few moments later, "that I didn't meet you last night. I was playing myself and I could have taken you along. And to-night I'm afraid I'm booked up three deep."
"What's the name of the house?" demanded Percy.
"Damned if I know, old boy," said the other. "It's a number, I think. But the road is Oakleigh Avenue."
"That's it," cried Percy, turning to Jim, "I remember now. That's where we met last night."
"As a matter of fact," went on d'Acres, "it's perhaps as well you weren't there. A poor evening. We generally carry on till three or four, but this morning we broke up about one."
Jim looked at him thoughtfully.
"Any particular reason?" he asked.
"Bloke there half screwed, who was asking for trouble. Began swearing he'd been cheated, which was all tripe. I've been to the damned place for months, and it's run absolutely square. Then he swore he'd get the police, which seemed to little Willie the moment to quit."
"Did he get the police?" asked Jim casually.
"Ask me another," said d'Acres. "I got to bed at a respectable hour for once."
"I wonder if he was the fellow I met at dinner," continued Jim, catching Percy's eye for a second. "Distinctly elevated even then, and asking everyone if they could tell him where to get a game. Big fellow and fat, with fair hair."
d'Acres shook his head.
"Not guilty. This was a slight, dark bird. Haven't an earthly what his name was, but he'd just come from South America, where according to him gambling was gambling, and not messing about with chicken food."
Not too good, reflected Jim. The evidence as far as it went at present seemed to point to nothing bigger than an ordinary gambling row as the cause of the shooting. And if so it would have been far better if he had telephoned the police from the house, for all interest would have left the situation as far as he was concerned.
"Who runs the place?" he asked.
"A syndicate, I believe. Cagnotte of five per cent—drinks and sandwiches chucked in."
He rose.
"Let me know any time you want to go," he remarked. "But give me a bit of warning, because I'm pretty full up. And if I can't manage it—you must be introduced the first time by someone who is known—I'll get old Monty to take you. He's always there: believe he's one of the syndicate, as a matter of fact. From all I hear, the old lad needs every penny of boodle he can lay his hands on."
Not a muscle of Jim's face twitched: his expression was one of polite interest.
"Monty," he murmured. "Monty who?"
"Monty Barnet," said the other. "Thought everyone knew old Monty. Well—so long: you just let me know when you feel like a flutter."
He lounged away, and Jim turned to his cousin.
"Who the devil is Monty Barnet when he's at home?"
"Good Lord! man—it can't be him your blind friend meant. He's Sir Montague Barnet, umpteenth Bart. Got a big place not far from Crowborough."