‘No,’ Mrs Sewell told him, ‘John isn’t home. Anything wrong?’
This question Ramsay ignored and said:
‘Do you know where Mr Sewell is? Can I get him? It’s rather important. Or do you know where Gill is?’
‘No, I don’t know anything about Preston. But you may find Mr Sewell at the Balfour home. I think he intended to go there this evening. Who is this? Where are you speaking from?’
‘Thank you,’ said Ramsay, briefly.
He cradled the instrument and sat back in the swivel chair, looking deeply thoughtful and carefully avoiding any glance in the direction of Philip Balfour, who lay dead on the other side of the room.
After a moment he took the telephone again, and called the Balfour home.
‘Potter,’ he said, as the butler responded, ‘don’t mention my name, understand?’
‘Yes, Mr—Yes, sir.’
‘That’s right. Is Mr Sewell there?’
‘Yes, sir, he is talking with Mrs Balfour.’
‘Ask him to take a telephone message on this extension. If he wants to know who’s calling, say you don’t know.’
‘Yes, sir.’
And in a few moments Ramsay heard John Sewell’s voice inquiring as to his identity.
‘Keep quiet, Mr Sewell, don’t mention any name. But come down here to your shop right away. I can’t tell you on the telephone, but there’s serious trouble. Get here as soon as you can, but don’t breathe a word to Mrs Balfour. Tell her you’re called to the home of an important customer or something of that sort.’
‘All right, I get you. Be there in two jumps.’
Sewell returned to the library where he had been sitting and told Mrs Balfour that he must hasten away on important business. He bade her good night in his courteous way and shook hands with Carl Swinton, another caller.
‘Glad I’m not leaving you quite alone, Mrs Balfour. When your husband returns, please tell him I will see him tomorrow about the Button book. He will be pleased, I know.’
Sewell went away and strode down Park Avenue, then crossed over to Lexington.
With his key, he entered his own front door, and finding the front room dark, went quickly through it to the lighted rear room.
As he did so, the police arrived at the back door, which Ramsay opened to them.
Sewell stared at the incoming visitors, stared harder as he saw Balfour’s body on the floor, and stared hardest of all at Keith Ramsay, who seemed to be going about like a man in a dream.
‘Well, now, what’s this all about?’ asked the Inspector.
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Sewell declared; ‘can you explain, Ramsay? Who killed Mr Balfour? Is he dead?’
‘You called Headquarters, sir?’ and Inspector Manton looked at Ramsay.
‘I did.’
‘Will you please tell your story? Please explain the conditions we find here?’
‘I’m not sure that I can, but I’ll tell all I know.’
‘Go to it, my boy,’ Sewell urged. ‘How did you get in the shop? Has Gill been here? Who jammed that skewer in Balfour’s breast?’
‘Just a moment, Mr Sewell. Let me conduct the inquiry.’ Inspector Manton had a nice way with him, but his speech was a trifle dictatorial. ‘Tell me names, please. Who is the dead man, and who are you?’
Keith began, slowly. ‘The man who is dead,’ he said, ‘is Mr Philip Balfour, who lived on Park Avenue, several blocks farther uptown. He was a wealthy man, retired, and devoted to the hobby of collecting old and rare books. I am—was—his librarian, and I had charge of the details of the library’s business affairs and kept it in order generally.’
‘And I can vouch for both of them,’ declared John Sewell, eager to vindicate his friends from any thought of wrong-doing. Mr Balfour was one of the finest gentlemen I have ever known and Mr Ramsay is an ideal librarian.
‘Facts we’re after,’ put in Captain Burnet of the Homicide Squad. ‘What are you two men doing here, and who killed Mr Balfour?’
‘Were you here when these men arrived, Mr Sewell?’ asked Manton, who thought he had heard Sewell come in just as he came in himself.
‘Well, no,’ Sewell returned, looking a little perplexed. ‘I just came in myself, as you did. Tell your story, Keith.’
‘I will,’ and Ramsay’s face grew stern and set, ‘but I am afraid you’ll find it hard to believe.’
‘Out with it,’ Sewell urged. ‘I know neither of you two did any wrong, whatever happened.’
The Inspector nodded at Ramsay and he began.
‘It was the wish of Mr Balfour to come here tonight to see about some books. He bade me telephone Mr Sewell that we were coming, but I couldn’t get him on the telephone, so Mr Balfour said he was probably here at the shop and we would come along, anyhow.’
‘H’mm,’ observed Sewell, not with any seeming doubt, but expressing a mite of surprise.
‘So we came over soon after dinner and, as Mr Balfour wanted to find a couple of books, we both looked for them.’
‘What were the names of these books?’ asked Burnet.
‘They were two of Lewis Carroll’s less well-known volumes. One was Symbolic Logic and the other A Theory of Parallels. You know them, Mr Sewell?’
‘Yes, yes; oh, yes,’ he replied, but Captain Burnet shrewdly declared to himself that though the sagacious book-dealer doubtless knew the books, he did not know why Mr Balfour was over in his shop hunting for them.
But he said nothing and Ramsay went on.
‘You may find this hard to believe,’ he hesitated a little, ‘but I swear I am speaking only the exact truth. I was looking along those shelves opposite the outside door and Mr Balfour was on the other side of the room, near the door. I heard no unusual sound, saw nothing unusual, when suddenly the lights went out and the room was in total darkness.
‘Then I heard a thud as if Mr Balfour might have fallen to the floor, and I tried to grope my way over toward him, when I was chloroformed. Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about, for I do. Someone grasped me, held a saturated cloth against my nostrils and held me so firmly that I couldn’t move, until I became unconscious. The swivel chair, the desk chair, was nearest, and I assume my assailant seated me in that after I was entirely oblivious.’
‘Who was your assailant?’ asked John Sewell, gravely.
‘I’ve
