“You think Holmes stands alone?” queried Mary.
“Not altogether, Miss Considine, as I’ve often told Bill Cunningham.” He turned to me, “Mason’s M. Hanaud, Bentley’s Trent, Milne’s Mr. Gillingham, and to a lesser degree perhaps, Agatha Christie’s M. Poirot are all excellent in their way, but oh!—the many dozens that aren’t.”
“I could mention three others,” said Jack Considine.
“Yes? Who are they?”
“Bernard Capes’ ‘Baron’ of The Skeleton Key, Chesterton’s Father Brown, and H. C. Bailey’s Reginald Fortune.”
“I am willing to accept two,” said Anthony, “but Father Brown—no. He’s too entirely ‘Chestertonian.’ He deduces that the dustman was the murderer because of the shape of the piece that had been cut from the apple-pie. I can’t quite get him.”
The company laughed merrily.
“Ah, Mr. Bathurst,” remarked Sir Charles. “There is a great gulf between fiction and real life. Give me Scotland Yard every time.”
“I am ready to. Scotland Yard is a remarkably efficient organization—but——”
“Well, Sir Charles, I think this! Give me a fair start with Scotland Yard, and its resources to call upon, if necessary, and I’ll wager on my results.”