The Reader Is Warned

Masters pointed to a newspaper bill in the rain.

'But how long is this nonsense going on, sir?'

'I dunno. I'm hopin' for a short row and a merry one.'

'But Pennik can't do that!' Masters pointed out.

'Without doubt, my old one. Only he's doin' it.'

'It's this campaign in the newspapers. I never saw anything like it in all my born days. Trams, tubes, buses: nothing but Teleforce, Teleforce, Teleforce, and what do we propose to do about it ? Very nastily said, too. It's a disgrace, they say. One gentleman buttonholed me in the train this morning and quite seriously suggested sticking Pennik away in a zinc-lined box like a tube of radium. It's the newspapers; and I wish I knew who was encouraging them.'

H. M. tapped his chest with the menu. 'I'm encouragin' 'em,' he said. 'What?'

'Sure. Note, son, that there ain't a soul in Fleet Street who claims Pennik is a true prophet. There's a very strong tinge of The Bird hoverin' round every line that's written. And if I can manage -'

'But people are believing it!'

'Oh yes. Pennik's mustard. Wait till you hear him on the wireless to-morrow night.'

'Goddelmighty,' said Masters. 'You don't mean they're going to let him broadcast over the B.B.C. ?'

'No. But they are in France. He goes on over Radio Brittany at 7.15; commercial programme; sponsored by. Spreedona Cheese Biscuits. Y'know, Masters' - H. M. ruffled his hands across his big bald head - 'there are features of our modern life that puzzle me. They do, honestly. How that's supposed to be a great recommendation for a product beats me. "Here we are, ladies and gentlemen. Listen to Herman

Pennik, who knocks 'em off without even the aid of Spreedona Cheese Biscuits."'

'And I suppose you encouraged that too, sir?'

'Uh. Well. I didn't altogether discourage it.' Masters did not say anything. He studied H. M. as though he could think of a place of incarceration for him much more suitable than the House of Lords.

And H. M. was not joking. He drew himself up.

'I'm the old man, son,' he said with great dignity. 'You trust me and everything will be all right. I've got my reasons. Only-' -

'Only?'

'Well, if the thing won't work and I take a toss over this, I hate to think what's goin' to happen. I'll be packing my bag and departin' for Siberia with such promptness as to baffle the eyesight.'

'You will that,' said the chief inspector grimly; and Sanders knew that H. M. was really worried.

'Which is why,' he returned, 'that we got to get down to business and do it straightaway. I want every fact I can lay my hands on. I want every dagger in the arsenal, because Pennik's got a few himself. I've been reading your report.' He looked at Sanders. 'And yours, son. You did the postmortem on Mrs Constable yesterday ?'

'Yes,' said Sanders.

'And still no sign of what caused death?'

'No. Except that she was so chronically run down in every organ, so burnt out except for actual physical strength, that she was the easiest possible victim -'

'For whatever it was?'

'Yes.'

'Uh-huh. Finally, I want your whole story. I want to hear everything that happened to you on Sunday night, after we left you to your fate. And Mrs Constable to hers, God help us! Now tell me: slow, steady and careful.'

Sanders told him. It lasted through the soup-course and half-way through the beef; it was the dozenth time he had told it, but he omitted nothing. H. M., his napkin stuck firmly into his collar, listened while he ate; occasionally he would stop and peer over a loaded fork. What parts of the story struck him as significant Sanders could not tell, though at times his eye was curious.

At the end of it H. M. put down his knife and fork.

'So,' he muttered, folding his arms. 'So!'

'It'd seem, sir,' interposed Masters, 'it'd seem we may have made a bit of a mistake about Mrs Constable.'

'Oh ? And that makes you still more dubious, hey ? If I'm so cocky about thinkin' I'm on the right track in this business, I got to explain how that mistake came to be made, haven't I ? I wonder if you can guess.'

'I don't want to guess; I want to know. That's to say, if you know.'

H. M. reflected.

'We'll round this up. Tell me, Masters: is it absolutely certain that Pennik's alibi for Sunday night is air-tight?' Masters nodded firmly.

'Not a doubt of it. He put up at the Black Swan, as he said he was going to. You remember that you and I went over there and tried to see him; but he got on his high and mighty horse and refused to see us.'

'Well?'

'Well, he arrived at the Black Swan at about nine o'clock. From that time on, until he went to bed at well past twelve, he was never out of the sight of at least two witnesses. Oh, ah! Did it deliberately, of course. He kept a group of them up on a little drinking party after the bar closed. They thought he was a bit touched in the head, and you can't blame 'em. Frothing at the mouth, and so on -'

'Did he do that?'

'He did. They even kept him in sight when he was making his telephone calls, though there was a lot of noise and he spoke low and they didn't hear what he was saying. However, from nine o'clock to well past twelve he's definitely got an alibi that can't be shaken.'

Masters paused. He drew a deep breath. Then his blood-pressure went up like a thermometer.

'I know it can't be shaken,' he repeated. 'The only trouble is that Dr Sanders here swears he saw Pennik prowling through Fourways at half-past eleven.'

There was a silence. H. M. looked round at Sanders.

'You're sure of that, son?'

Sanders nodded. On that rainy afternoon, even in the crowded and noisy restaurant, the atmosphere of the twilight house was back' again. He too well remembered the nose and five fingers pressed against that glass door to the conservatory, and Pennik's face behind.

'Yes. It was either Pennik or his ghost or his twin brother.'

'His ghost, maybe,' commented H. M. without inflexion or surprise. 'Sort of astral projection. I told you he was mustard.'

'Astral projection be blowed,' said Masters, going more red. 'Only - lummy! Are you telling me, sir, that he not only can polish people off without a mark left on their bodies, but he can send his ghost to do it for him? Are you telling me that?'

'Well, how do you explain it?'

'I don't,' said the chief inspector. 'Not yet. All I know is I'm going mad. I'm slowly going stark, staring, raving -'

'Now, now!' urged H. M., giving a deprecating look round over his spectacles, and turning back to Masters with a soothing air. 'Just keep you shirt on, and stop poundin' on that table. Be dignified. Like me. Ho, ho!' A ghoulish grin went over his face. 'I'm as dignified as even Squiffy could want. Eat your cheese and think of Marcus Aurelius. How's everything at home ? How's the kid ?'

Masters's face lit up.

'Survived the operation beautifully. Everything's fine, I'm glad to say. Mrs M's with her now. I've been running about a good bit -'

'Sure. So your brain won't work.'

'Much obliged, sir.'

'That's all right. Looky here. I'm trying to extract from you your meed of information. The last time I saw you, you had only one object. The last time I saw you, you were goin' bald-headed to find something out about Pennik. Have you found out anything about him?' Masters was himself again.

'Ah! I have, just a bit. Not much, but I'm grateful for anything.' 'Well?'

'Part of it I got from Mr Chase, and part of it by a piece of luck from the proprietor of the Black Swan Hotel.' Masters frowned. 'As you say, the trouble so far has been to find out something about Mr Ruddy Pennik, who he is or what he does or where he comes from. I saw Mr Chase yesterday. He seems to be the only person now remaining alive who knows anything at all about Pennik.'