The elderly man slapped his hand on the counter.

“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it five hundred times,” he snapped irritably. “There’s no Mr. Smith here, and never was, to my knowledge. And if you’re the gentleman that addresses his letters here, I’d be glad if you’d take that for an answer. I’m sick and tired of handing his letters back to the postman.”

“You surprise me. I don’t know Mr. Smith myself, but I was asked by a friend to leave a message for him.”

“Then tell your friend what I say. It’s no good sending letters here. None whatever. Never has been. People seem to think I’ve got nothing better to do than hand out letters to postmen. If I wasn’t a conscientious man, I’d burn the lot of them. That’s what I’d do. Burn ’em. And I will, if it goes on any longer. You can tell your friend that from me.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Wimsey. “There seems to be some mistake.”

“Mistake?” said Mr. Cummings, angrily. “I don’t believe it’s a mistake at all. It’s a stupid practical joke, that’s what it is. And I’m fed up with it, I can tell you.”

“If it is,” said Wimsey, “I’m the victim of it. I’ve been sent right out of my way to deliver a message to somebody who doesn’t exist. I shall speak to my friend about it.”

“I should, if I were you,” said Mr. Cummings. “A silly, tom-fool trick. You tell your friend to come here himself, that’s all. I’ll know what to say to him.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Wimsey. “And you tell him off.”

“You can lay your last penny I shall, sir.” Mr. Cummings, having blown off his indignation, seemed a little appeased. “If your friend should turn up, what name will he give, sir?”

Wimsey, on the point of leaving the shop, pulled up short. Mr. Cummings, he noticed, had a pair of very sharp eyes behind his glasses. A thought struck him.

“Look here,” he said, leaning confidentially over the counter. “My friend’s name is Milligan. That mean anything to you? He told me to come to you for a spot of the doings. See what I mean?”

That got home; a red glint in Mr. Cummings’ eye told Wimsey as much.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” was what Mr. Cummings actually said. “I never heard of a Mr. Milligan, and I don’t want to. And I don’t want any of your sauce, neither.”

“Sorry, old thing, sorry,” said Wimsey.

“And what’s more,” said Mr. Cummings, “I don’t want you. See?”

“I see,” said Wimsey. “I see perfectly. Good-morning.”

“That’s torn it,” he thought. “I’ll have to work quickly now. St. Martin’s-le-Grand comest next, I fancy.”

A little pressure at headquarters produced what was required. The postmen who carried letters to Old Broad Street were found and interrogated. It was quite true that they frequently delivered letters for a Mr. Smith to Mr. Cummings’ shop, and that these letters invariably were returned, and marked “Not known.” Where did they go then? To the Returned Letter Office. Wimsey rang up Pym’s, explained that he was unavoidably detained, and sought the Returned Letter Office. After a little delay, he found the official who knew all about it. The letters for Mr. Smith came regularly every week. They were never returned to the sender in the ordinary course. Why? Because they bore no sender’s name. In fact, they never contained anything but a sheet of blank paper.

Had they last Tuesday’s letter there? No; it had already been opened and destroyed. Would they keep the next one that arrived and send it on to him? Seeing that Lord Peter Wimsey had Scotland Yard behind him, they would. Wimsey thanked the official, and went his way, pondering.

On leaving the office at 5.30, he walked down Southampton Row to Theobald’s Road. There was a newsvendor at the corner. Wimsey purchased an Evening Comet and glanced carelessly through the news. A brief paragraph in the Stop Press caught his eye.

CLUBMAN KILLED IN PICCADILLY

At 3 o’clock this afternoon a heavy lorry skidded and mounted the pavement in Piccadilly, fatally injuring Major “Tod” Milligan, the well-known clubman, who was standing on the kerb.

“They work quickly,” he thought with a shudder. “Why, in God’s name, am I still at large?” He cursed his own recklessness. He had betrayed himself to Cummings; he had gone into the shop undisguised; by now they knew who he was. Worse, they must have followed him to the General Post Office and to Pym’s. Probably they were following him now. From behind the newspaper he cast a swift glance about the crowded streets. Any one of these loitering men might be the man. Absurd and romantic plans flitted through his mind. He would lure his assassins into some secluded spot, such as the Blackfriars subway or the steps beneath Cleopatra’s Needle, and face them there and kill them with his hands. He would ring up Scotland Yard and get a guard of detectives. He would go straight home to his own flat in a taxi (“not the first nor the second that presents itself,” he thought, with a fleeting recollection of Professor Moriarty), barricade himself in and wait-for what? For air-guns?… In this perplexity he suddenly caught sight of a familiar figure-Chief-Inspector Parker himself, apparently taking his early way home, and carrying a fishmonger’s bag in one hand and an attaché case in the other.

He lowered the paper and said, “Hullo!”

Parker stopped. “Hullo!” he replied, tentatively. He was obviously not quite certain whether he was being hailed by Lord Peter Wimsey or by Mr. Death Bredon. Wimsey strode forward and relieved him of the fish-bag.

“Well met. You come most carefully upon your cue, to prevent me from being murdered. What’s this, lobster?”

“No, turbot,” said Parker, placidly.

“I’m coming to eat it with you. They will hardly attack both of us. I’ve made a fool of myself and given the game away, so we may as well be open and cheerful about it.”

“Good. I’d like to feel cheerful.”

“What’s wrong? Why so early home?”

“Fed-up. The Yelverton Arms is a wash-out, I’m afraid.”

“Did you raid it?”

“Not yet. Nothing happened during the morning, but during the lunch-hour crush, Lumley saw something being smuggled into a fellow’s hands by a chap who looked like a tout. They stopped the fellow and searched him. All they found was some betting-slips. It’s quite possible that nothing is timed to happen before this evening. If nothing turns up, I’ll have the place searched. Just before closing-time will be best. I’m going down there myself. Thought I’d step home for an early supper.”

“Right. I’ve got something to tell you.”

They walked to Great Ormond Street in silence.

“Cummings?” said Parker, when Wimsey had told his tale. “Don’t know anything about him. But you say he knew Milligan’s name?”

“He certainly did. Besides, here’s the proof of it.”

He showed Parker the stop-press item.

“But this fellow, Tallboy-is he the bird you’re after?”

“Frankly, Charles, I don’t understand it. I can’t see him as the Big Bug in all this business. If he were, he’d be too well-off to get into difficulties with a cheap mistress. And his money wouldn’t be coining to him in fifty-pound instalments. But there’s a connection. There must be.”

“Possibly he’s only a small item in the account.”

“Possibly. But I can’t get over Milligan. According to his information, the whole show was run from Pym’s.”

“Perhaps it is. Tallboy may be merely the cat’s paw for one of the others. Pym himself-he’s rich enough, isn’t he?”

“I don’t think it’s Pym. Armstrong, possibly, or even quiet little Hankie. Of course, Pym’s calling me in may have been a pure blind, but I don’t somehow think he has quite that kind of brain. It was so unnecessary. Unless he wanted to find out, through me, how much Victor Dean really knew. In which case, he’s succeeded,” added Wimsey, ruefully. “But I can’t believe that any man would be such a fool as to put himself in the power of one of his own staff. Look at the opportunities for blackmail! Twelve years’ penal servitude is a jolly threat to hold over a man. Still-blackmail. Somebody was being blackmailed, that’s almost a certainty. But Pym can’t have slugged Dean; he was in conference at the time. No, I think we must acquit Pym.”