Copyright & Information

Ask For Ronald Standish

First published in 1933

© Trustees of the Estate of H.C. McNeile; House of Stratus 1933-2010

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of H.C. McNeile (Sapper) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore St., Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

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About the Author

Herman Cyril McNeile, who wrote under the pseudonym Sapper, was born in Bodmin, Cornwall, on 28 September 1888 to Captain Malcolm McNeile RN and his wife, Christiana Mary. He was educated at Cheltenham College, and then went on to the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, before joining the Royal Engineers in 1907, from which he derived his pseudonym – ‘sappers’ being the nickname of the Engineers.

During World War One he served first as a Captain, seeing action at both the First and the Second Battle of Ypres, and won the Military Cross before retiring from the army as a Lieutenant-Colonel in 1919. Prior to this, in 1914 he met and married Violet Baird, daughter of a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Cameron Highlanders. They eventually had two sons.

Somewhat remarkably, he managed to publish a number of books during the war and whilst still serving, (serving officers were not permitted to publish under their own names – hence the need for a pseudonym), commencing with The Lieutenant and Others and Sergeant Michael Cassidy, R.E. in 1915. Lord Northcliff, the owner of the Daily Mail, was so impressed by this writing that he attempted, but failed, to have McNeile released from the army so he could work as a war correspondent.

McNeile’s first full length novel, Mufti, was published in 1919, but it was in 1920 that his greatest hit Bulldog Drummond, was published. This concerned the exploits of a demobilised officer, Captain Hugh ‘Bulldog’ Drummond, ‘who found peace dull’. This was an immediate and enduring success and has been filmed and performed on stage both in the UK and USA. Further Drummond adventures were to follow, along with other novels, notably those featuring the private detective Ronald Standish.

Much of his writing is based upon the atmosphere, rather than experiences, he absorbed from public school and London Gentleman’s Clubs. His heroes are most decidedly ‘English’ in character and ‘do the right thing’, whilst his villains are foreign and ‘do not play by the rules’. Ian Fleming once noted that his own hero James Bond was ‘Sapper’ from the waist up.

McNeile died in 1937 at his home in Sussex, having lived a relatively quiet and content life, in sharp contrast to the characters in his books. His friend Gerard Fairlie, thought to be the model for Drummond, went on to write seven more adventures. Many of his books are collections of short stories, with most having a twist in the tail, usually surprising the reader by totally flawing anticipations with regard to their ending within the last few sentences. They are as popular today as ever and eagerly adopted by succeeding generations as amongst the best of their genre.

House of Stratus was pleased to gain the right to publish from McNeile’s estate in 1999 and has since continually held his major works in print.

1: Partial Salvage

“My Dear Standish,

“I don’t know if you ever ran across Miles Parker. He died about two years ago, and, to everybody’s surprise, left practically nothing, for we had all thought he was pretty comfortably off. He was a widower, so the only person affected by it was his son Terence, who was up at Cambridge: a darned good lad, as I think you’ll agree when you meet him.

“It was, of course, impossible for him to stop on at the ’Varsity, and since he has no uncles or near relatives, I suggested he should come and make his headquarters with us, at any rate until he found something to do. But, as you know yourself, jobs are not too easy to come by these days, especially for fellows who have no technical training. And it fridged the lad as month after month went by and nothing turned up: he felt he was sponging on me. At last, however, he answered an advertisement in the paper, and from this point Terence can tell you his own story. I may be several sorts of ass to take up your valuable time, but I’d like your candid opinion. I’m not quite easy in my mind.

“Yours sincerely,

“Graham Meridith.

“PS – Probably wild horses won’t make him admit it, but I don’t think Terence is quite easy himself.”

Ronald Standish passed the letter over to me and turned to the third occupant of the room – a cheery-faced youngster of about twenty-three.

“Well, what’s it all about, young feller?” he said with a smile.

“I feel quite ashamed to worry you, Mr Standish,” said Terence Parker. “But Uncle Graham seemed set on it, so I’ve come along. He’s not really my uncle, of course,” he added.

“Courtesy title,” cried Ronald. “I see. Let’s hear about this mysterious job of yours.”

“He’s told you about my father, I suppose?”

“Yes: I’m wise up to the time when you answered an advertisement.”

“Good: I’ll start from there,” said our visitor. “It was about three months ago, and I was getting desperate. Uncle Graham has been goodness itself to me, but I felt I couldn’t go on living with him for ever. And suddenly, one morning, I saw this advertisement in the paper.”

He took a cutting out of his pocket and handed it over to Ronald.

“Secretary wanted. Must be unmarried man about five feet ten in height: average build. Shorthand unnecessary. Good salary to suitable applicant. Box 231.”

Without comment Ronald put the cutting on the table, and waited for Parker to continue.

“As you can imagine, I had an answer in the post within ten minutes, and two days later I received instructions to go to a place called Fordham House, near Woking, where I was to interview a Mr Charles Follitt. I’m afraid I haven’t got the letter with me, as I tore it up when I got the job.

“I went down at once, and found the house without difficulty. And before I’d had time even to ring the bell the door was flung open and a fellow of about my own age was shown out by an elderly female. He looked a bit glum, so I concluded that he was an unsuccessful competitor, and that the place wasn’t filled yet.

“‘This way,’ mumbled the old dame. ‘And what’s your name?’

“I told her, and she announced me. Standing on the hearthrug was a man of about fifty. He was swinging a pair of pince-nez to and fro, and as I came in he put them on and gave me the once over. I did the same to him. He was about my own height, clean shaven, and in his way not bad looking. But there was a shifty sort of look in his eyes that I didn’t very much like.

“‘Well, Mr Parker,’ he said, ‘you are the thirtieth applicant I have seen. It is incredible how foolish some people are: no less than ten of them were married, whilst three of them were at least six feet. You are not married, I take it?’

“‘I am not,’ I assured him.

“‘And your height, I can see, is satisfactory. So we will proceed to the other points Do you live with your father?’

“‘My father is dead,’ I told him, ‘and so is my mother.’

“‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘You have my sympathy. An uncle perhaps?’

“By this time I was beginning to get a bit stuffy: I couldn’t see what the devil it had to do with him who I lived with. However, I told him quite civilly that my nearest relation was a second cousin whom I’d never seen, and that the man whose house I was in was no relation at all.

“‘Excellent!’ he cried, rubbing his hands together. ‘I, too, am almost alone in world, and my only relative is a cousin. I feel we shall get on capitally together, Mr Parker.”

“I stared at him.

“‘Do you mean you’ve engaged me?’ I cried.

“‘I think I may say that you will suit me,’ he answered. ‘Subject, of course, to one small condition. There may come an occasion Parker – I don’t say it will, but it may – when I shall have to leave the house, and at the same time let it appear that I am still here. Nothing criminal, I assure you,’ he added with a laugh when he saw me look at him pretty hard; ‘it’s merely a family matter into which I prefer not to go. What I am getting at is this, however. Should such an occasion arise I should want you to wear some suit of mine and appear just once or twice in the window of one of the rooms facing the road, so that only your back is seen.’

“Well, I must say, Mr Standish, I thought that was a bit odd, but the money side came in and I agreed.

“‘Splendid,’ he remarked. ‘Now as to salary. Shall we say five pounds a week?’

“‘That suits me,’ I said promptly. ‘And what are my duties?’

“‘To start with, I want my library catalogued,’ he said. ‘And there will be a few letters and things of that sort.’

“At that it was left, and I started work the next day.”

“One moment, Parker,” said Ronald. “What does the staff consist of?”

“The old woman who let me in, and she goes home every night.”

“So you and Mr Follitt slept there alone. I see: go on.”

“As I say, I started the next day, and having provided myself with pens, ink, and paper, I proceeded to tackle the library. And ten minutes’ inspection was sufficient to show that the thing was simply farcical. I don’t profess to know anything about books, but I can recognise absolute junk when I see it. There were piles of books all over the floor, and shelves full of them, but you’ve never thought of such a collection. To give you an example, there were four copies of that revolting tome, ‘Eric, or Little by Little.’ There were old books of hymns mixed up with a treatise on spherical trigonometry: there was Mrs Beeton’s cookery tome next door to a table of logarithms. And this is what I was supposed to classify!

“So I interviewed Mr Follitt and asked him how he wanted me to set about it. And then he told me how he had acquired his collection. Apparently one of his hobbies was to buy up the whole of the contents of a second-hand bookshop in the hopes of finding something good. And what he wanted me to do was to arrange and make a list of anything I thought possible and discard the rest. So I started off on those lines, and have been carrying on ever since. As he was doing the paying, he could presumably dictate the job.

“So much for that side of it: now for the other. After I’d been in the house about four days I was sitting in the smoking-room one night after dinner. Mr Follitt had gone into the place he called his laboratory, a room which was separated from the rest of the house by a green baize door, and I was alone, when suddenly a most queer-looking customer came in. He still had his hat on, and for a time he stood there looking at me with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing dark glasses and had a ragged-looking black moustache.

“‘Is Charles in his laboratory?’ he asked in a peculiar hissing voice.

“‘He is,’ I said. ‘May I ask who you are?’

“‘His cousin. I suppose you’re the secretary?’

“And it was then I discovered what caused the hiss: his two central front teeth were missing.”

“‘Damned foolishness,’ he grunted. ‘What’s he want a secretary for?’

“With which he turned on his heel and left the room. I heard the baize door swing, and picked up my book again with some relief. Mr Follitt’s cousin was not my idea of a pleasant evening. After a while, however, it occurred to me that they might like a drink, so I walked along the passage and knocked at the laboratory. They were talking inside, but when I tried the handle it was locked.

“‘What is it?’ called out my employer.

“‘I wondered if you’d like a drink, Mr Follitt.’

“‘No, no,’ he said testily. ‘Go away, Parker.’

“Which I thought a bit harsh: I didn’t care a damn if he had a drink or not. However, to do him justice he apologised handsomely later on.

“‘I fear I seemed a little irritable,’ he said, ‘when you came to the laboratory. But my cousin, James Palliser, and I were having a business discussion, and we could not see eye to eye.’

“‘Has he gone?’ I asked, for I hadn’t heard him leave.

“‘Yes: I let him out by the side door. And, by the way, Parker, whenever he comes as he did tonight he always goes straight to the laboratory. And then we never wish to be disturbed.’

“I refrained from saying that so far as I was concerned nothing would induce me to disturb Mr James Palliser, who had struck me as a positively leprous piece of work; and any time in the future when he came – and it’s been pretty often – I’ve kept religiously out of his way.”

Young Parker paused and lit a cigarette.

“I hope I’m not boring you, Mr Standish,” he continued, “but your sufferings are nearly over. About a week ago my bird came to me and said that the occasion he had alluded to when he engaged me had arisen, and that he wanted me to impersonate him that afternoon. He produced a suit he often wore, and in which I, personally, would not have been seen dead drunk in a ditch. But I’d agreed to do it, and so I put it on.

“‘Show yourself four or five times,’ were his instructions, ‘but don’t be recognised. Also – and this is very important – try and see if anybody appears to be watching the house.’

“Well, I carried out my orders, and after he’d been gone about an hour I found that somebody was watching the house. No, less a person than Mr James Palliser. I showed him my back view two or three times, and in between kept an eye on him through the curtains. He was passing and repassing the house, and kept lingering by the gate and peering in. And finally I’ll be damned if he didn’t stop a passing policeman and have a talk with him, evidently about the house, for the copper peered in too. Which struck me as pretty rum: what on earth could a policeman tell him with regard to the place or its occupant that he didn’t know already? In fact, the more I thought of it the more extraordinary the whole thing grew. He’d seen what he thought was his cousin inside, and therefore he must have assumed that his cousin had seen him. So what sense was there in popping about outside the gate like an agitated hen?

“I told Mr Follitt, of course, as soon as he got back, and, to my amazement, he appeared to have expected it.

“‘I’m not surprised, Parker,’ he said. ‘You think you bluffed him into thinking it was me?’

“‘I think so,’ I answered. ‘But the whole thing seems so pointless.’

“‘Not if you knew the facts of the case,’ he told me. ‘A matter of business, my boy, and one thing I can assure you. It was imperative that James Palliser should believe I was here the whole afternoon.’

“And with that he went off to his laboratory, leaving me to wonder what was at the bottom of it all. It’s all so queer, Mr Standish. This so-called work I’m on is complete bunkum. I gave him two long lists and he never even glanced at them. I’m convinced he bought all those books merely as a pretext for giving me something to do.”

“That,” agreed Ronald, “is fairly obvious. Has he paid you regularly?”

“Every week,” said Parker. “And that’s another point. He’s a mean man – very mean: at times one literally doesn’t get enough to eat. So why pay a ludicrous salary for absolutely useless work?

“He isn’t,” answered Ronald. “He’s paying a ludicrous salary in order to keep you in the house. And the point is, why is he doing so? Has anything happened since you impersonated him?”

“Nothing, except that another avalanche of ‘Erics’ has descended on me,” said the youngster with a grin.

“Does he know you’ve passed all this on to Meredith?”

“No: but he’s never told me to keep it dark. What do you make of it, Mr Standish?”

“Frankly, my dear fellow, I don’t make anything at all of it at present. It’s an odd story, but odd things happen in this world. Clearly his sole object is to have a man in the house who is of right build to impersonate him at a distance. Equally clearly Mr James Palliser would appear to be the audience for the impersonation. But why? What the relations are… By the way, what are their relations? How do they get on together?”

For a moment or two Parker stared at him.

“Do you know, Mr Standish,” he said slowly, “it’s a most extraordinary thing, and it’s never struck me until this moment. I’ve never seen ’em together. I’ve heard ’em talking, but I’ve never actually seen ’em together.”

“Hasn’t Palliser ever stopped for a meal?”

“Not on your life. Old Follitt is far too stingy. It takes one back to one’s old school days when one went and gorged at the tuckshop. Hashes and muck of that sort every day. Says his teeth hurt him.”

“Well, Parker,” said Ronald after a pause, “the situation as I see it is this. You’re getting a fiver a week and the run of your hash. I don’t like this impersonation business at all, but it may be only a family matter, in which there’s no harm in it. You are old enough and ugly enough to take care of yourself, and my advice to you is to hang on drawing your fiver and to keep your eyes skinned. And the instant anything occurs which you don’t like – hop it. You know my address, and a line here will always get me.”

It was a fortnight before the next development took place, and this time it was Mr Graham Meredith who came to see us.

“Look here, Standish,” he burst out even before the door was shut, “I wish you’d give me your advice. You remember young Terence, don’t you? Now would you put that boy down as being a thief?”

“A thief!” echoed Ronald. “Most certainly not. Who says he is?”

“His employer – Mr Charles Follitt,” cried Meredith indig-nantly. “I was in my garden this morning when a man I’d never seen before drove up to the house. He turned out to be Mr Follitt, and the first thing he said to me when he found out who I was left me gaping. ‘Naturally I can’t employ him any more,’ he said, ‘but if he lets me have the money back I’ll say no more about it. Perhaps I was to blame in leaving it lying about.’

“‘What the deuce are you talking about?’ I cried.

“‘Hasn’t Terence Parker come back here?’ he asked.

“‘He has not,’ I said. ‘Why should he? Isn’t he still with you?’

“‘He went to bed as usual last night: did not appear this morning. And his bed had not been slept in. In fact, he’s gone. And I’m very grieved to have to tell you, Mr Meredith, that a hundred pounds of my money has gone also.’

“‘You mean to say,’ I cried, ‘that you’re accusing young Terence of stealing a hundred pounds of yours. Because I don’t believe it’

He shrugged his shoulders.

“‘I can hardly believe it myself,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless, the fact remains that the notes have gone, and so has he.’

“‘What about the servants?’ I cried.

“‘I have only one woman who comes by the day, and she wasn’t there yesterday or today. It’s a shock, I know,’ he went on ‘It was a terrible one to me, because I liked him. But I really can’t afford to lose a hundred pounds.’

“‘The instant I am satisfied that Terrence took your money,’ I assured him, ‘I will send you a cheque for that amount.’

“And with that he departed. What do you make of it, Standish? I’d stake my whole reputation that that boy is no thief.”

“I agree,” said Ronald. “And yet this man Follitt would hardly dare to make such an accusation unless he had good grounds for believing it. Have you heard nothing from Terence?”

“Not a word. I got quite a cheerful letter from him about three days ago, and that’s the last I’ve heard of him. But nothing,” he reiterated, “will make me believe that boy is a thief.”

“Well, Meredith,” said Ronald, “I’m extremely sorry for you. But it seems to me that there’s nothing to be done except to wait and hear his side of the story. From what Mr Follitt told you he’s not going to call in the police, and that is something, at any rate. Because, however innocent he is, police inquiries are always unpleasant.”

“An unexpected development, Bob,” he remarked when Mr Meredith, still vehemently protesting that the thing was outrageous, had gone. “He struck me as being a remarkably nice youngster.”

“You think he took the money?” I said.

“If he didn’t, the whole of Mr Charles Follitt’s story is a lie. And why should he lie? What is his object? The fact that young Parker has disappeared can easily be verified. And if for some reason or other they’ve had a row and Follitt wants to get his own back, he’d make his accusation of theft as public as possible. He wouldn’t go to Meredith, as he did do, and announce his intention of keeping the whole thing quiet.”

“And yet I don’t believe that youngster would steal,” I said.

“Sudden temptation. A hundred quid is a lot of money. May have been betting, or something of that sort. And yet I agree with you. Let us put on our considering caps, Bob. Let us try and evolve a solution, which would cover the facts as we know them, based on the assumption that young Parker is not a thief, and that therefore Follitt is lying.”

“Thank you kindly,” I said, “for the little word ‘us.’ I, personally, am going round to the club to have a drink.”

He joined me there at lunch, and I asked him what luck he had had.

“None,” he answered. “I’ve tried three possibles, but each of ’em fails on one point or another. You remember our assumption – that Follitt is lying. That being so one fundamental fact emerges. If young Parker did not take that money, but just quit the job after a row, Follitt would never have dared to go to Meredith with a cock-and-bull yarn about stealing. He would naturally have assumed that Parker would have got there before him. Am I right so far?”

“Yes,” I said. “You are.”

“Let’s go a step farther. Follitt did go to Meredith, therefore he knew Parker could not get there before him. How could he know that unless young Parker has not disappeared?”

“You mean…” I began.

“I mean this. If Follitt is lying, that youngster is a prisoner somewhere. And I can think of no more likely place than the house itself.”

“But what’s the great idea?” I cried. “I can think of two or three, Bob,” he said gravely. “Are you on for a visit on the quiet to Fordham House?”

“Of course,” I answered.

“Because I think we’ll go after lunch. Mr Follitt does not know either of us.”

We found the house without difficulty, and strolled casually past it. It was a smallish place, standing back from the road, and there was no sign of life in any of the rooms.

“I’m going to take the bull by the horns, Bob,” said Ronald. “It’s acted before: I’m travelling in linoleum. You keep out of sight.”

He produced a bundle of samples from the car, and walking up to the front door, he rang the bell. But a few minutes later he had joined me again.

“No answer,” he remarked. “Which may or may not mean the house is empty.”

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

“Because it rather points to Follitt’s story being true.”

“I know it does. And yet… Look here, Bob,” he said suddenly, “it’s not fair on you… You go back to Town.”

“What the devil are you driving at?” I cried. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to wait till it’s dark, and then have a closer look.”

“I’m with you,” I said resignedly. “We’ll ask if we can share the same cell.”

We put through the afternoon somehow, and then had dinner. But it was nearly eleven before Ronald deemed it safe to start. We left the car some way from the gate, and then stood in the shadow reconnoitring. The house was in darkness, and in the faint light of the moon that came filtering through the fir trees it seemed that all the windows were shut.

“Come on,” whispered Ronald. “It’s now or never.”

He climbed the gate and I followed him, creeping along the grass verge that bordered the drive. The trees were creaking slightly in the breeze, and our footsteps made no sound, as we skirted round to the back of the house. This, too, was in darkness, and with infinite care we approached one of the windows. The curtains were drawn, but when one got close to, a faint glow came from inside. It was the dying embers in the kitchen grate.

And then I began to sniff, and Ronald put his lips to my ear.

“Smell it, Bob? “he breathed. “It’s paraffin. I’m breaking in.”

Came a sharp crack as he used a peculiar implement of his own on the catch, and cautiously lifted the bottom window. And the next moment we both recoiled involuntarily: the place literally reeked of paraffin.

“Something wrong here,” he muttered, and switched on his torch. “My God! Bob,” he cried, “look there!”

I could scarcely believe my eyes. Sprawling in a chair, his mouth and chin covered with blood, was young Parker. Stacked up around him was a mass of shavings and paper, whilst at his feet was an overturned lamp. And the floor was swimming in paraffin.

“The devil!” snarled Ronald. “The foul devil! Come on, Bob, though I’m afraid we’re too late.”

And then he gave a cry of triumph as he reached the youngster.

“Not dead, Bob; not dead. Only insensible.”

And as we carted him to the window something fell with a tinkle on the floor. I picked it up: it was a plate of six false teeth.

We laid Parker down on the grass and turned the torch on him. He was breathing deeply and regularly, but his mouth was a shocking sight. And Ronald examined it more closely.

“What’s happened to him?” I said.

“Six teeth hauled out,” remarked Ronald softly. “May heaven have mercy on Mr Charles Follitt when I get hold of him. Let’s get Parker to the car, Bob: then we will come back and await the gentleman.”

But that was not to be. Hardly had we got the youngster in the car when a sudden blaze of light shone through the trees from behind us. We could hear the roar of the flames and see the smoke pouring out of the house.

“Just in time, Bob,” said Ronald, even more softly. “Mr Charles Follitt will not return tonight. It did not occur to me that he was so well versed in scientific arson. We will now go to the police station, and doubtless in time we shall be able to return his bona fide false teeth.”

“To Mr Charles Follitt,” I remarked.

And Ronald’s reply was enigmatic.

“A rose by any other name,” was all he said.

I suppose I was dense, but even then the truth did not dawn on me. That Mr Charles Follitt had deliberately set fire to Fordham House by means of some incendiary device timed for a certain hour was obvious. Further, that he had intended the wretched Parker’s charred body to be mistaken for his own was also clear. He had been thorough, too. Realising that he himself had false teeth, he saw the impossibility of leaving a corpse that had not: he had therefore extracted six of the youngster’s and left the plate of false ones to be found. The fact that it did not fit could never be discovered after the fire. Also he had spun the only story to Graham Meredith which would account for Terence Parker disappearing: the disgrace of having taken the money would prevent the boy going back to the man who had treated him so well. His insistence on his secretary not having any near relatives who might make awkward inquiries: all the details of the plot were clear, save the one crucial one. What was his motive? Why did he want the world to think he had been burned to death?

It could not be a question of insurance, either fire or life. If he was supposed to be dead, claiming the money became a little difficult. And then Mr James Palliser began to loom up in my mind. He might help there. As the only relation he would inherit anything his cousin might leave, and he would be in a position to claim the insurance money. Then, after a decent interval, he could join Follitt abroad and split the cash. A risk on Follitt’s part, undoubtedly: he was putting himself completely at Palliser’s mercy. And since, from what Parker had told us, there was friction between the two men, the risk seemed a large one. However, that appeared the only possible solution, and I said as much to Ronald, who smiled.

“The swine will lie doggo for a bit,” I remarked, “and then get out of the country.”

“Think so, Bob? Well, we’ll see. Anyway, to make him easy in his mind I have persuaded the Inspector to put up a little mild deception. Here it is.”

He tossed over a sheet of paper, and I read the contents.

“Fordham House, near Woking, the residence of Mr Charles Follitt, was completely gutted by fire in the early hours this morning. It is feared the unfortunate owner perished in the blaze.”

“A nice little paragraph for the newspapers,” he remarked, “which may help matters. And now all we can do is to get Parker back to Meredith’s house and make him as comfortable as possible.”

The youngster recovered consciousness the next day, and for a time, as was only natural, he seemed completely dazed. His mouth was hurting abominably; the teeth had been wrenched out in the crudest way. And even when he could speak coherently all we got out of him was that he had felt queer at lunch and after that remembered no more.

“That’s when Follitt drugged him,” said Ronald. “He was in the house when Bob and I called, and probably Follitt was, too.”

“I’m very anxious to meet Mr Follitt again,” remarked Meredith quietly.

“And so you shall,” said Ronald. “In the very near future.”

“But, damn it,” I cried, “the man is pretending to be dead. He’s not going to show his nose anywhere.”

“An even fiver, Bob,” he grinned, “that with the help of Mr James Palliser we lay our hands on him within the next few days.”

“You mean Palliser will split,” I cried. “What a precious pair of blackguards they are.”

To be exact, it was three days later that Ronald rang me up.

“If you want to be in at the death, old boy,” he said, “come round to the office of the South British Insurance Company in Pall Mall at midday.”

I went there, to find the Inspector I had seen at Woking, with Ronald and a stranger who proved to be one of the directors of the company.

“You were quite right about the insurance, Bob,” said Ronald. “Follitt had insured his life for thirty thousand, and his house for five against fire. And Mr James Palliser is coming shortly to claim his cheque. Will you and the sergeant wait in the next room, Inspector? We don’t want to alarm our bird. And we may have to use unpolice-like methods.”

He arrived almost immediately, and I must say I have seldom seen a more peculiar-looking man. He was dressed in black, and as he greeted us the two missing teeth were most noticeable.

“Mr James Palliser, I believe?” said Ronald. “Please sit down.”

He took a chair, and one could see his eyes blinking behind the dark glasses.

“A terrible affair,” he remarked. “Terrible.”

“I see from the policy in which you are mentioned as next of kin to Mr Follitt,” said Ronald, “that you live near Birmingham.”

“That is so,” said ‘Palliser. “I have had a house there now for two years.”

“But you frequently visited your cousin at Woking?”

“Frequently. And he came to see me. Not during these past few weeks, but before that he was often a visitor.”

“You have been to his house quite a lot recently, I believe?”

“Four or five times, I suppose. To be frank, we have not been on quite such friendly terms of late. A private matter, connected with a lady on which we did not see eye to eye.”

“You know he had engaged a secretary, don’t you?”

“I do. I met the young fellow on two or three occasions. But my cousin telephoned me – let me see, it was actually the day of the fire – that he’d decamped with some money.”

“Most fortunate for him he wasn’t involved in the fire too,” remarked Ronald. “Did you know, Mr Palliser, that when your cousin engaged him he made the peculiar condition that his secretary must be prepared at times to impersonate him?”

Mr Palliser sat forward.

“I did not,” he said. “Impersonate him! Then that accounts…” He leaned back and sighed. “However, my cousin is dead. Let us not speak ill of him. It is the private matter I mentioned. One day when I thought he was at Fordham House, it must have been his secretary I saw. Poor Charles!”

He sighed again, and put his fingertips together.

“I suppose you couldn’t tell us the name of the lady,” said Ronald.

“Really, sir! What possible bearing can it have on the case?”

“I thought that perhaps she might like a little momento of your cousin,” answered Ronald blandly.

“But I understand that the house was completely gutted.”

“There is always partial salvage, Mr Palliser,” said Ronald, still more blandly.

And to my utter amazement he produced from his pocket the set of false teeth and put it on the table in front of him.

But if I was surprised, the effect on Mr Palliser was electrical. A hoarse sort of gurgling noise, came from his throat and he plucked at his collar with both hands.

“You seem upset, Mr Palliser,” continued Ronald, and his voice was no longer bland. “Strange, isn’t it, that these teeth show no signs of the fire.”

“I don’t understand,” stammered the other. “What have my cousin’s false teeth to do with me?”

“That remains to be seen,” remarked Ronald. “I was going to suggest that if the lady would not like them they might come in handy for you. Your own seem sadly wanting.”

Mr Palliser rose from his seat as Ronald approached him.

“Don’t touch me,” he shouted. “Don’t dare to touch me.”

And what happened then was, as Ronald had said, not strictly police-like.

“Hold his head, Bob,” snapped Ronald, and in a second the transformation had occurred. Off came the moustache and glasses: out came a set of false teeth with the centre ones missing.

“Now, Mr Charles Follitt, you ineffable blackguard, you can put in the complete set or not, as you like.”

“Mercy!” screamed the wretch. “I… I…”

“Did you show mercy to your secretary?” cried Ronald. “Luckily we got him out in time, which unfortunately saves you from the gallows. Take him away, Inspector. Attempted murder and arson should keep him happy for some years to come.”

“You were very nearly right, Bob,” he said to me later. “At first that was my solution, and then the incredible risk of Follitt putting himself completely in the hands of a distant cousin, with whom he was not even on the best of terms, ruled it out. Inquiries were made, of course, and, sure enough, a Mr James Palliser was found to have a house near Birmingham, where he’d been for two years. He, too, had one old woman who looked after him, and from her we found out that he was frequently away for a month at a time. Then we went to Mr Charles Follitt’s servant and discovered that he, up to the time young Parker went to him, also indulged in these long absences, And it was then that I saw the immense significance of the fact that Parker had never seen ’em together. Heard ’em, yes – but not seen ’em.

“The whole thing was an elaborate and carefully planned plot to make Palliser a reality. When Follitt was not in Woking, Palliser was in Birmingham. And vice versa, Follitt, realising that there is nothing so noticeable about anyone as missing teeth, had two plates made, from one of which he removed two conspicuous ones. That also had the effect of making him speak with that peculiar hissing intonation. And when Parker heard them, as he thought, talking to one another, it was Follitt talking to himself and changing the plate each time. As I say, just a carefully thought-out scheme to allow Mr Follitt to be burned beyond recognition, and then draw the insurance money as Mr Palliser. For the fact remains, Bob, that if we hadn’t been in time and young Parker had been burned to death, the evidence of Follitt’s dentist as to the false teeth would have been conclusive.

“You shall now stand me lunch and I’ll let you off the fiver.”

2: The Silent Victim

Petersdown Towers was a large, rambling, old-fashioned house lying in the heart of West Sussex. Elizabethan, it was one of the few places where the Virgin Queen was not reputed to have stayed the night, though Sir James Ardingley, the fourth baronet – if rumour was to be believed – had not been unpleasing in that august lady’s eyes. The grounds were extensive: the shooting good without being first class. And, like most houses of similar size today, its capacity for absorbing money was incredible.

The existing baronet, Sir Hubert, had long discovered that annoying fact. As a captain in the Guards he found it increasingly difficult to combine his expenses with his income; the property seemed to be an inexhaustible sink for cash.