“What was his profession?”

“I think he was a gentleman of independent means. I never heard of him being engaged in any business.”

“Did you know that he had a silk hat from which the maker’s name had been removed?”

“Yes, sir. He was very angry about it. Said that some friend of his had damaged the hat for a rag. I offered several times to get it put right, sir, but when he had cooled down he said it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a hat he very often used, sir. And besides, he said, why should he be a walking advertisement for his hatter?”

“Did you know that his dress suit had also lost his tailor’s tab?”

“Had it indeed, sir? No, I can’t say I noticed it.”

“What sort of man was Mr. Mountjoy?”

“A very pleasant gentleman, sir. I’m very sorry to hear he has met with such a sad accident.”

“How long has he lived here?”

“Six or seven years, I believe, sir. I’ve been here four years myself.”

“When was the practical joke played on his silk hat?”

“About eighteen months ago, sir, if I remember rightly.”

“As long ago as that? I fancied the hat looked newer.”

“Well, sir, as I say, he didn’t wear it above once or twice a week, sir. And Mr. Mountjoy didn’t trouble about the fashion of his hats. There was one particular shape he fancied, and he had all his hats specially made to that pattern.”

Parker nodded. He knew this already from the hatter and from Wimsey, but it was well to check matters up. He reflected that he had never yet caught Wimsey tripping in any fact pertaining to dress.

“Well,” he said, “as you may have guessed, Withers, there will have to be an inquiry about Mr. Mountjoy’s death. You had better say as little as possible to any outside person. You will give me all the keys of the flat, and I shall be leaving the police in charge here for a day or two.”

“Very good, sir.”

Parker waited to ascertain the name and address of the proprietor of the flats, and left Lumley to his investigations. From the proprietor he gained very little information. Mr. Mountjoy, of no profession, had taken the flat six years previously. He had paid his rent regularly. There had been no complaints. Nothing was known of Mr. Mountjoy’s friends or relations. It was regrettable that so good a tenant should have come to so sudden and sad an end. It was much to be hoped that nothing would transpire of a scandalous nature, as those flats had always been extremely respectable.

Parker’s next visit was to Mr. Mountjoy’s bank. Here he encountered the usual obstructive attitude, but eventually succeeded in getting access to the books. There was a regular income of about a thousand a year derived from sound investments. No irregularities. No mysterious fluctuations. Parker came away with an easy impression that Mr. Hector Puncheon had discovered a mare’s nest.

The Chief-Inspector voiced this opinion to Wimsey the same evening. His lordship, whose mind was still divided between detection and the new Whifflet campaign, which had taken clear shape during the afternoon, was curt with him:

“Mare’s nest? Then what knocked Puncheon out? A kick from the mare’s heel?”

“Perhaps Mountjoy merely got fed up with him. You’d get fed up yourself if you were pursued all over London by a Puncheon.”

“Possibly. But I shouldn’t knock him out and leave him to his fate. I should give him in charge. How is Puncheon?”

“Still unconscious. Concussion. He seems to have got a violent blow on the temple and a nasty crack on the back of the head.”

“Um. Knocked up against the wall, probably, when Mountjoy got him with the cosh.”

“No doubt you’re right.”

“I am always right. I hope you are keeping an eye on the man Garfield.”

“He won’t move for a bit. Why?”

“Well-it’s odd that Mountjoy should have been snuffed out so inconveniently for you.”

“You don’t suppose that Garfield had anything to do with it? Why, the man was nearly killed himself. Besides, we’ve looked into him. He’s a well-known Harley Street man, with a large West-end practice.”

“Among the dope-maniacs, perhaps?”

“He specialized in nervous complaints.”

“Exactly.”

Parker whistled.

“That’s what you think, is it?”

“See here,” said Wimsey, “your grey matter isn’t functioning as it ought. Are you tired at the end of the day? Do you suffer from torpor and lethargy after meals? Try Sparkle-tone, the invigorating vegetable saline that stimulates while it cleanses. Some accidents are too accidental to be true. When a gentleman removes his tailor’s tab and takes the trouble to slice his hatter’s imprint away with a razor, and goes skipping, for no reason at all, from Finchley to South Kensington Museum in his dress suit at unearthly hours in the morning, it’s because he has something to hide. If he tops up his odd behaviour by falling under a train without the smallest apparent provocation, it’s because somebody else is interested in getting the things hidden, too. And the more risks somebody else takes in the process, the more certain it is that the thing is worth hiding.”

Parker looked at him and grinned quietly.

“You’re a great guesser, Peter. Would you be surprised to hear that you’re not the only one?”

“No, I shouldn’t. You’re holding something out on me. What is it? A witness to the assault, what? Somebody who was on the platform? Somebody you weren’t inclined to pay much attention to? You old leg-puller, I can see it in your face. Out with it now-who was it? A woman. A hysterical woman. A middle-aged, hysterical spinster. Am I right?”

“Curse you, yes.”

“Go on, then. Tell me all about it.”

“Well, when Eagles took the depositions of the witnesses at the station, they all agreed that Mountjoy had walked several paces past Garfield and then suddenly staggered; that Garfield had caught him by the arm and that both had fallen together. But this female, Miss Eliza Tebbutt by name, 52, unmarried, housekeeper, living in Kensington, says that she was standing a little way beyond them both and that she distinctly heard what she describes as a ‘dreadful voice’ say, ‘Punch away, you’re for it!’ That Mountjoy immediately stopped as though he had been shot, and that Garfield ‘with a terrible face,’ took him by the arm and tripped him up. It may increase your confidence in this good lady when you hear that she is subject to nervous disorders, has once been confined in a mental home and is persuaded that Garfield is a prominent member of a gang whose object is to murder all persons of British birth and establish the supremacy of the Jews in England.”

“Jews in England be damned. Because a person has a monomania she need not be wrong about her facts. She might have imagined or invented a good deal, but she couldn’t possibly imagine or invent anything so fantastic as ‘Punch away,’ which is obviously her mishearing of the name ‘Mountjoy.’ Garfield’s your man-though I admit that you’re going to have some difficulty in fixing anything on him. But if I were you, I’d have his premises searched-if it isn’t too late by now.”

“I’m afraid it probably is too late. We didn’t get any sense out of Miss Tebbutt for an hour or so; by which time the heroic Dr. Garfield had, naturally, telephoned both to his home and to his consulting room to explain what had happened to him. Still, we’ll keep an eye on him. The immediate matter of importance is Mountjoy. Who was he? What was he up to? Why did he have to be suppressed?”

“It’s pretty clear what he was up to. He was engaged in the dope traffic and he was suppressed because he had been fool enough to let Puncheon recognize and follow him. Somebody must have been on the watch; this gang apparently keeps tabs on all its members. Or the wretched Mountjoy may have asked for help and been helped out of the world as the speediest method of disposing of the difficulty. It’s a pity Puncheon can’t talk-he could tell us whether Mountjoy had telephoned or spoken to anybody during his dash round town. Anyhow, he made a mistake, and people who make mistakes are not permitted to survive. The odd thing, to my mind, is that you heard nothing of any visit to the flat. You’d rather expect the gang to have made some sort of investigation there, just to make sure. I suppose those servants are to be trusted?”