"Uh-huh," nodded H.M. "And this bloke accepted?"
"Yes. You see the set-up?"
"The money," mused H.M., "goes straight into Manning's pocket? And the books show if s being paid out?"
"It's only a very small way," Byles admitted, "of milking the Foundation. There are far bigger ways. But this particular man in Michigan"—and Byles tapped the table—"got an anonymous letter. It said the whole business was crooked; and, if he didn't believe it, let him write to another man in West Virginia.
"Well, he did. The West Virginia man had received exactly the same letter, only this time it was the Something-Something Fellowship in music. They were mad. I don't blame them. They came straight to New York, and somebody sent 'em to the Complaints Bureau of my office. Now do you mind if I tell a little personal adventure?"
"About Manning?"
"Yes."
Byles got up, tall in the grey suit of "our best-dressed D.A.," against the three oak walls of old books, and the fiery sun at the two screened windows facing front Then he turned round.
"I told you, didn't I, that Manning and I belong to the same club?"
"Uh-huh."
"He had lunch there yesterday. He didn't see me, but I saw him. He had a brief case against his knee; didn't even leave it at the checkroom. During lunch,"—and Byles smiled a peculiar smile—"he was so absorbed with an envelope, writing or figuring, that the waiter couldn't wake him up. When the waiter did wake him up, he crumpled up the envelope and threw it away and hurried out"
"Well?"
"I was curious." Byles raised his eyebrows. "When I followed him, I did pick up the envelope. I found it had (among other things) a series of figures arranged for a profit of just over a hundred thousand. Ye-es, H.M.! It was time to move in."
"You knew he was going to do a bunk, hey? And a hundred thousand soakers..."
"Smackers," corrected the smiling Byles.
There was a terrible silence.
To correct H.M.'s American slang, which he believes to be more than merely perfect is a far deadlier insult than to say he has cheated atcards or been seen shaking hands with Sir Stafford Cripps. It was instantly smoothed over by the watchful, tactful Byles.
"Sorry, my mistake," the District Attorney assured him. "I believe the most up-to-date version is 'soakers, now I come to think of it" "Haaah!" breathed H.M., sitting back in his
bathing suit and continuing to puff voluptuously
at the stogy. "There's only one thing," said Byles, "I don't
understand." "What's that?"
"I can't understand Howard Betterton." Byles frowned. "Come on,H.M. You're a barrister. Didn't you notice it?"
"Oh, I might have. But your law, when it was founded on our law just before the British Common Law got changed for the better, has gone some very rummy ways. Be quiet, dammit! Tell me about Betterton."
Byles returned to the table, sat down, and again interlocked his fingers.
"Howard's shrewd," he admitted. "He was all fuss and feathers this morning. Buthe didn't even try to throw chairs in my way. Howard must have known"—here Byles tapped his breast pocket—"I got this subpoena through White Plains, in this county, so I could take the swindling s.o.b. to town in a way he wouldn't like. Howard must have known another subpoena was served, at nine o'clock this morning, on the man in charge of Manning's office in New York. And yet—no games."
H.M. merely grunted. But there was a curious look in his eyes which Cy Norton could not interpret.
"You were the one who phoned him last night, eh?"
"I did. But I hardly thought he'd make a break and admit he was guilty." A twinkle appeared in Byles's eyes. "Probably you can see why I don't give two hoots about your swimming-pool mystery?"
"Sort of dimly, yes. It's not your baby. It's the police's. But if they catch Fred Manning..."
"When they catch Manning," corrected Byles, "it won't matter a damn how he got out of the pool. There he is; I can stick him in front of a jury! But, my God, in the meantime! That's where you come in.
"Me?" exclaimed H.M., in sudden alarm. Gilbert Byles's voice became low and persuasive.
"The good public," he said, "won't care anything about Manning until he's caught. But this swimming-pool mystery—that’s different! That’s the public's meat Every city editor in town will be delirious."
"I thought you said," interposed Cy, "that the swimming-pool mystery was only a corporate lie."
"I still think it is. But if it isn't, all the better. Now listen, H.M.! You're pretty well known in this country as a locked-room buster and a debunker of miracles. The newspapers love you, - because you're good copy. Your job is to hold 'em off, and solve the mystery if you can."
"Now wait a minute!" bellowed H.M., and his feet came down from the table with a crash that shook the room. "I can't stay in New York, I tell you! Even as it was, I got kidnapped."
"What do you mean, kidnapped?"
H.M.'s voice became plaintive.
"Well, practically kidnapped. And as I keep telling everybody," he went on with deep earnestness, "I got to visit a family in Washington."
Byles smiled.
"H.M., this is really important." He continued in the same low tone, "If you phone these people in Washington, and explain the circumstances, I'm sure they'll understand." Byles was all for action. "What's their phone number?"
"I dunno the phone number," H.M. confessed. "But I expect you could get it. They live at a place called the White House."
"The White..."
For a moment Byles only stared at him. Then Byles put his elbows on the table, lowered his half-bald head, and knocked his knuckles against it
"Is this straight?" he presently demanded, looking out between his arms. "From what you said about the Labour Government, as quoted in last night's and this morning's papers, I shouldn't think they'd send you on a diplomatic mission. I should think they'd want to hang you."
"Oh, son! This is no diplomatic mission. I'm simply carryin' a letter to the President from an old friend of his in England. There's nothing secret about it; you could read it over the radio. Still, do you think it's polite to keep the President waiting"
Byles groaned.
"I tell you what I'll do, though," H.M. volunteered after a pause. "I'll make a little bargain "with you."
"Oh?" said Byles, raising his head with instant suspicion at any bargain proposed by H.M.
"I mean it, Gil. Have you got any accountants at your office?"
"Accountants? The District Attorney's office has a whole staff of accountants, six of 'em, just to deal with cases like this!"
"The Manning Foundation," said H.M., "don't look very big or very complex. Could you prove to me that Fred Manning's a crook in twenty-four hours?"
"Twenty-four hours! We-el! I..."
"Scotland Yard," sneered H.M., "could do it in one afternoon."
Now of all the whoppers he had ever told, and the name of them was legion, this ranked among the highest But it had its effect Gilbert Byles was stung as though by a rattlesnake.
"I should like to point out" he retorted coldly, "that American efficiency..."
H.M. got up and whacked the palm of his hand on the table. Byles also got up.
"Could you prove Manning's a crook in twenty-four hours?" demanded H.M., sticking out his unmentionable face. "I dare you!"
"Could you solve this mystery in twenty-four hours?" demanded Byles, also sticking out his face. "I dare you!"
"All right I'll do it!"
"So will I"
"Shake hands!"
"Shake hands!"
It was in this heroic if somewhat unusual attitude, like a group of statuary, that they were discovered by Bob Manning, followed by Jean and Crystal, who rushed into the library and stopped short
H.M. and the District Attorney somewhat guiltily dissolved their hand grip. But all three newcomers were too emotionally overwrought to notice anything, with the possible exception of Crystal. Bob, sandy-haired and gangling, in khaki shorts and an open khaki shirt seemed to grope for firmness and even fierceness. Jean and Crystal, the one still in her white beach robe and the other in her black, seemed to be urging him on.