The Scarlet Band

"About time they give those maniacs their just deserts," the second policeman said.

"Which reminds me, Helms," the good doctor said. "We were interrupted before we could attend to ours."

"I dare hope ours would require another 's,'" Helms said. He nodded to the policemen. "If you will be kind enough to excuse us...?" The blue-uniformed Atlanteans did not say no. With another polite nod, Helms walked back toward the Belvedere, Dr. Walton at first at his heels and then bustling on ahead of him.

* * * *

After finishing their desserts--which proved not to come up to the hopes Walton had lavished on them--the Englishmen went up to their rooms. "What puzzles me," Walton said, "is how the Preacher could have known Morris would speak to us then, and had a gunman waiting for him as he emerged."

"He would have done better to dispose of the man before we conversed," Helms replied. "If he had a pistoleer waiting for him, why not anticipate and set the blackguard in place ahead of time?"

"Maybe someone in the dining room belongs to the House and hotfooted away to let him know what was toward," Dr. Walton suggested.

"It could be," Helms said. "I wonder what the post-mortem will show."

"Cause of death is obvious enough," Walton said. "Poor devil got in the way of at least three rounds to the chest."

"Quite," Helms said. "But, as always, the devil is in the details."

"Do you suppose the devil is in Mr. Jones?" Walton asked.

"Well, if we were required to dispose of every man who ever made a sport of, ah, sporting with a number of pretty young women, the world would be a duller and a much emptier place," Athelstan Helms said judiciously. "Indeed, given the Prince of Wales' predilections, even the succession might be jeopardized. Murder, however, is a far more serious business, whether motivated by religious zeal or some reason considerably more secular."

"What would you say if the Preacher appeared on our doorstep proclaiming his innocence?" Dr. Walton asked.

"At this hour of the evening? I do believe I'd say, 'Fascinating, old chap. Do you suppose you could elaborate at breakfast tomorrow?'"

The good doctor pulled his watch from a waistcoat pocket. "It is late, isn't it? And I know I didn't get much sleep on that wretched train last night. You, though.... Sometimes I think you are powered by steel springs and steam, not flesh and blood."

"A misapprehension, I assure you. I have never cared for the taste of coal," Helms said gravely.

"Er--I suppose not," Walton said. "Shall we knit up the raveled sleeve of care, then?"

"A capital notion," the detective replied. "And while we're about it, we should also sleep." Walton started to say something in response to that, then seemed to give it up as a bad job. Whether that had been his particular friend's intention did not appear to cross his mind, which, under the circumstances, might have been just as well.

A reasonably restful night, a hearty breakfast, and strong coffee might have put some distance between the Englishmen and Benjamin Morris' murder--had the waiter in the dining room not seated them at the table where they'd spoken with him at supper. Dr. Walton kept looking around as if expecting the attorney to walk in again. Barring an unanticipated Judgment Trump, that seemed unlikely.

"How do you suppose we could reach the Preacher now?" Walton asked. "He surely won't be at that house any more."

"I'll inquire at the closest House of Universal Devotion," Helms answered. "Whether unofficially and informally or not, the preacher there should be able to reach him."

Before the detective and his companion could leave the hotel, a policeman handed Helms an envelope. "The post-mortem on Mr. Morris, sir," he said.

"I thank you." Athelstan Helms broke the seal on the envelope. "Let's see.... Two jacketed slugs through the heart, and another through the right lung. Death by rapid exsanginuation."

"Rapid? Upon my word, yes! I should say so!" Dr. Walton shook his head. "With wounds like those, he'd go down like Bob's your uncle. With two in the heart and one in the lung, an elephant would."

"Jacketed bullets..." Helms turned as if to ask something of the policeman who'd brought the report, but that worthy had already departed.

"Even so, Helms," Walton said. "Granted, they don't mushroom like your ordinary slug of soft lead, but they'll do the job more than well enough, especially in vital spots like that. And they foul the bore much less than a soft slug would."

"I am not ignorant of the advantages," Helms said with a touch of asperity. "I merely wished to enquire ... Well, never mind." He gathered himself and set his cap on his head. "To the House of Universal Devotion."

* * * *

The preacher looked at Helms and Walton in something approaching astonishment. "How extraordinary!" he said. "In the past half hour, I've heard from the Preacher, the police, and now you gentlemen."

"What did the Preacher want?" Helms asked.

"Why, I didn't see him. But I have a message from him to you if you came to call."