Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 19, November 1944

“He met his own image,” explained Colonel March, settling back comfortably. “I rather admire Mr. Wilson here. He is the proprietor of a unique Agency. He provides doubles for eminent men and women in their unimportant public appearances, so that the real men can stop at home and get on with their work.”

Mr. Wilson leaned across the desk and spoke earnestly.

“You would be surprised,” he said, “at the call there is for our services. Consider the life of a public man I While he should be at work, custom demands that he make endless public appearances, none of them in the least an iota of good. He makes interminable tours of inspection; he lays corner-stones; he addresses mothers’ meetings. Few if any of the people he meets have ever seen him before, or will ever see him again. And a good double—!”

Mr. Wilson drew a deep breath, rather sadly.

“I fear the idea is not mine,” he went on. “It was tried out a few years ago by a very eminent American. He simply could not stand all the handshaking.”

Wilhelmina Wilson intervened loyally.

“But you were the only one who saw its commercial possibilities,” she cried, and sat down on the edge of his desk as though to defend him. She somewhat spoiled the effect of this by winking at Colonel March.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Wilson. He turned back to his guests.

“Our fees, of course, are considerable,” he added apologetically. “But you have no idea of the difficulties. Once I had to send all the way to South Africa to get a passable double for... well, well, again we mustn’t be indiscreet!” He closed his eyes and smiled happily. “Then there is the question of elocution, voice-training, and so on. On the whole, I am proud of my handiwork. The next time you go to a cinema and see a newsreel, watch very closely! You may see something that will surprise you.”

Inspector Roberts was getting his breath back.

“Then Mr. Hale—” he began.

“Ah, yes,” murmured the proprietor of the Agency, brushing his dry palms together and frowning at Colonel March. “Mr. Hale! I imagine you saw a discrepancy when Mr. Hale’s double, a promising young actor named Gabriel Fisk, got drunk at that banquet?”

“A discrepancy,” said Colonel March; “but probably not the discrepancy you mean. Wasn’t that rather rash of him, by the way?”

“Perhaps,” admitted Mr. Wilson sadly. “But the lesser of two evils. You see, we hadn’t known that Mr. Hale’s fiancée was to be present; otherwise we should not have risked it. So, in case Fisk made a bad slip of some kind, he had to have an excuse for making a slip. Mr. Hale is a notorious and genuine teetotaller. But then (I thought) even a teetotaller can change his mind.”

Colonel March chuckled.

“He can change his mind,” said the colonel. “What he can’t change is his digestive system. He can’t work his way through a huge wine-list, from cocktails to brandy, without either becoming ill or going to sleep. In a man who has never taken a drink in his life, I submit that it’s a physical impossibility. When I heard of that little performance, I said to myself: ‘It is magnificent; but it isn’t Hale.’ And, speaking of his fiancée...”

Wilhelmina Wilson stiffened.

Throughout this conversation, she had several times seemed on the point of speaking. She still sat on the edge of her uncle’s desk, staring moodily at the toe of her slipper. When Colonel March spoke, she looked at her uncle as though with appeal.

But Mr. Wilson remained unruffled.

“Ah, yes!” he said. “That unfortunate affair yesterday morning!”

“What was unfortunate about it?” the girl demanded, with sudden passion.

“Tush!” said her uncle, raising a gentle but admonitory forefinger. He looked distressed. “Colonel March, my niece is — impulsive. Like her poor mother, my sister. And she is very fond of young Gabriel Fisk.

“You understand now what happened, I hope? That suit of clothes, with the notecase and watch and the rest of it, has nothing to do with the case. It’s a supernumerary. Mr. Hale provided us with an exact duplicate of his possessions. I am an artist, sir, or I am nothing. Neither the suit nor its contents has been worn for a week. Fisk left it hanging there in the locker when he changed in that cloakroom after appearing at the Muswell Hill Flower Show last Tuesday week.

“Yesterday Fisk, in his ordinary clothes, came in for instructions. He and my niece—” Mr. Wilson coughed. “It was unfortunate that Lady Patricia Mortlake walked in when she did. Fisk, of course, simply slipped out when her back was turned. Unfortunately, Lady Patricia is a strong-minded person. She ransacked the place, found the suit, and suspected I hate to think what.”

“And Hale?” asked Colonel March, without batting an eyelid. “The real Hale? Where is he now?”

Again Mr. Wilson was apologetic.