Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

Not only had they done all this, but they had provided for something else. They had most daringly shot Bordington while he was talking to somebody — choosing that moment so that that somebody could provide them with an alibi.

In effect, they had wanted somebody to see them come running in an alarmed state across the tennis courts, and who could they have had better than a man who was with Bordington when he was shot?

In all this the superintendent saw the workings of the clever brain which had defeated Levenheim, master crook. The woman would have designed it all; the man have executed it. It was the old tale of Adam and Eve.

The woman thought of it — the man did it. The superintendent told himself that he had found an apt comparison. It rather tickled him. He actually forgot to set a police trap for motorists on the only straight and safe piece of road around the district.

And that talk of the woman’s about a cripple and the potato bed. That was cute, if you like. Anybody can imitate the mark made by a cripple on recently dug earth, if they practice a little. The superintendent did it himself.

The woman was clever. She provided for everything — even for a mythical murderer. Nobody had seen the cripple. Nobody had found the marks save herself. William Smith, on being questioned, had stated that she had gone straight to the spot in the hedge where the marks commenced.

That was a little error, thought the super. She should have cast around a bit. But she wanted to get things done. She wanted to hammer home her defensive evidence before anything else was discovered.

The superintendent devoted a long hot afternoon and evening to full consideration of all these points; and found at the finish that, momentarily the woman was out of his reach. There were strong grounds for suspecting Lansdale, because he had had something to gain.

The woman, also, might have had something to gain, provided that there could be proved to have existed between herself and Lansdale anything more than a mere casual friendship. Suppose, for instance, Lansdale had promised to marry her, or take her away with him, or provide for her in any way whatsoever.

That was all right; but she was just outside the circle for the time being. It was another indication of her cleverness, thought the superintendent. She was as elusive as the proverbial eel.

But even eels were caught — provided the hook was baited right.

The superintendent decided that the hook in this case might be Jim Lansdale. There were no scientific methods about the superintendent’s workings. He was a believer in the sound police routine of constant questioning, watching, burrowing, working. He didn’t pick up cigarette ends, sniff them, analyze them, decide they were made in Constantinople and that, therefore, the murderer was a Chinaman with one eye, who was addicted to drinking whisky.

There was none of that stuff about the superintendent. He fastened on to some salient fact, and he stuck to it until it revealed another salient fact. He had the patience of Job and the pertinacity of a bulldog.

In addition, far more important, he had the wonderful and complex organization of the British police behind him. He believed that all murders were committed for a motive, and that that motive fell under one of a few heads — revenge, anger, jealousy and love of money.

There was money in this. It provided the motive.

On the following day he found Jim Lansdale up at the manor busy on Bordington’s affairs.

That evening the London newspapers had something to scream in heavy headlines.

James Lansdale, the late Lord Bordington’s secretary, had been detained on suspicion of complicity in the murder of his employer, and was being closely questioned by the local police.

That same evening, also, Kitty Willis telephoned Bill Smith at the Magnificent and asked him to meet her within an hour. They met at a quiet Soho restaurant and dined. Kitty seemed her usual self.

Smith said: “Seen the papers?”

Kitty nodded. “Yes. That superintendent’s a fool. I know Lansdale didn’t do it, because I was with him all the time. It was Pink. Which brings me to the reason why I wanted to see you.”

“What is it?” asked Smith.

Kitty looked straight at him. “Pink’s tried once,” she said slowly, “and he has failed. He has, inadvertently, committed a crime which might hang him one day — especially if one of us cared to go to the police and tell them everything. You can bet that he knows you suspect him. Pink wants to get you. He’ll hang afterward gladly; but he must get you. It seems to me that there’s a crisis at hand.”

“In what way?” asked Smith.

“Why — if you don’t slip into it, and get Pink — he’ll kill you. I’m not running in harness with you in order to uphold a private vendetta. I want the board cleared and work begun, and I’ll confess that I’m afraid of work with Pink around. I think it’s time you finished with Pink.”

Smith nodded. “You’re right. But how? Killing is dangerous. There’s enough trouble brewing over this Bordington affair.”