really tell. There are some golf clubs there that I told Kennedy to take along and look over.”
“Yours, ain’t they, Jones?” Gilroy said.
“They’re mine,” Martin admitted, “and you know very well they’re mine. But I just wish that one of you would try to swing a golf club in that six-inch space out there. I know it can’t be done, because I tried—”
“Oho,” Gilroy said. “So you tried, huh?”
“I’d found a book on golf, and I was practicing, or trying to, and I couldn’t, so—”
“Yeah, but you could of used it like a hammer,” the inspector interrupted. “The clubs belong to you, anyways. You’re an anthropologist, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Know all about bones, don’t you?”
“Anatomy? Yes. But—”
“Then you’d know where to kill a man by hitting him—”
“Yes, but inspector, consider this,” Martin said patiently. “You don’t have to be an anthropologist to know that a blow sharply struck on the base of the skull is fatal. Why, you—you—” Martin swallowed twice, “why, primitive people all over the world use that blow. Strike the cervical plexus hard enough, and the medulla is instantly paralyzed. I admit that I may know the terms, but you tell me how many men don’t know the theory of the rabbit punch!”
“That’s fair enough,” the medical examiner said. “It wouldn’t have taken any anatomical expert to have hit that blow. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything of the sort. Got your pictures, Kennedy? Good. Send North along as soon as my ambulance comes. I’ll see him later.”
“Now.” The inspector turned to Martin as the doctor left. “Now, you—”
“I know,” Martin said. “I know. I’m here. I’ve threatened North. I’ve a criminal record. But you know I came here by chance. It was an accident that I stumbled in here instead of any other store in the square. It was an accident that North happened to come in here. He never frequented bookstores. I didn’t even know he was here, either, until after that crash outside. After that, I went back and found him out there—”
“Didn’t know he was here, huh? Did you?” the inspector looked at Mr. Harbottle and Mrs. Jordan.
“Naturally I knew he was here. He bumped me,” Mrs. Jordan told him. “Rude person, I thought.”
“I—dear me,” Harbottle said. “He—that is, I heard him make a lot of noise about his ‘Transcript’. He was most rude about it, I felt. He had a loud voice, and he seemed to be a—er—singularly outspoken man.”
“That’s all very well,” Martin said, “but he didn’t happen to bump me, and I didn’t hear his voice or notice his damn bad manners. I was too busy with that golf book. I never dreamed of running into North in a place like this. Why pick on me and my golf clubs? Almost any object in the world might have been used to kill North. Any one of a number of people might have killed him. He was an eminent anthropologist, but he wasn’t a bit popular. Why, there’s a Nazi sympathizer who’s been writing him threatening letters for months, all because of some cracks North made about the Aryan supremacy! And—”
The inspector went to the phone book, flicked the pages and finally dialled a number.
“Yeah?” he said to Martin as he waited. “Yeah? I’ll call your bluff, buddy. I got you, and you know it. Hullo. This Professor John North’s house? Who’s this speaking? The maid? I’m trying to find out where I can get hold of Martin Jones. Happen to know? He called today, you say? Around three o’clock. Wanted to find North to get into the museum to get some of his papers, huh? I see. You told him North was going to a bookstore? What store? Oh, he was going first to the shops on Corn Hill, and then Pemberton Square and around that section. North had a list, you say? And Jones was going to follow. He said he might!”
There was something about the inspector’s smile which reminded Dot of a cat about to pounce on a mouse.
“I just wanted to get my papers at the museum,” Martin said desperately. “Some old papers and a thesis I’d forgotten about. I—”
“Hullo, there. Got the list, have you? That’s fine. Will you read it to me? Peters was fourth, you say? Peters on Pemberton Square? You told Martin Jones that, did you? Okay, sister. Thanks.”
He rang off and turned around to Martin.
“Let’s go, Jones.”
CHAPTER 3
Ten minutes later Martin, in a borrowed overcoat, strode off between two patrolmen, jauntily whistling “Frankie and Johnnie”. Once out of the store, however, his chirruping ceased. He exchanged bantering remarks with the policemen as he climbed into the patrol wagon, knowing full well that if he didn’t laugh, he would undeniably break down and bawl his head off like a baby. He was done for. Washed up.
“This,” he said, “is the end to what was generally regarded as a pretty smart career. It—”
“Cheer up,” one of the cops said, “you done a lot in a short time, kid. Now you’re gonna be able to sit an’ think.” Inside the store, Mrs. Jordan drew on her gloves.
“The police,” she told Dot, “are simply unspeakable. So are these reporters. I want six books, my dear. Here’s the list. Send them to me at the Mayflower.”
She passed over a bill.
“This should cover them.” Head in the air, Mrs. Jordan started for the door.
“Hey, you!” Gilroy grabbed her by the arm. “Hey, who do you think you are, huh? You can’t leave here. You can’t go till I tell you! You got to stay—”
“My good man, you’ve solved this situation to your own entire satisfaction without my aid. I see no reason for my being detained any longer.”
“See here, lady—”
“Jones,” Mrs. Jordan announced, “is innocent. A child—in fact, rather a simple-minded child—could grasp that without effort. You’ve given him no earthly chance, and I trust that you will suffer for it. You know my name and address—”
“Yeah, but that don’t make no difference to me, lady. You got to stay here just the same. Ain’t goin’ to be detained, huh? Say, who do you think you are, huh?”
The store door opened and four men walked in. Even Dot, who never read the newspapers, knew them instantly—a senator, a world-famous lawyer, an ex-cabinet member and a renowned millionaire. The police force gasped, and the photographers audibly bemoaned the flash bulbs they had wasted on Martin and the books.
The lawyer spoke first to Mrs. Jordan.
“My dear Agatha, I’m so sorry for the delay. But—”
“Quite all right, Harry. Quite. Please tell these persons who I am. Really, Harry, something simply must be done about the police. I don’t know when I’ve been more thoroughly irritated. Of course I shall take no notice
