"Yes. This is Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard—great pal of mine. Yes. Very unpleasant matter, annoying and all that. Bag that ought to have been reposin' peacefully at Paddington Station turns up at Eaton Socon. No business there, what?"
He smacked the bag on the table so violently that the lock sprang open.
Storey leapt to his feet with a shriek, flinging his arms across the opening of the bag as though to hide its contents.
"How did you get that?" he screamed. "Eaton Socon? It—I never——"
"It's mine," said Wimsey quietly, as the wretched man sank back, realising that he had betrayed himself. "Some jewellery of my mother's. What did you think it was?"
Detective Parker touched his charge gently on the shoulder.
"You needn't answer that," he said. "I arrest you, Philip Storey, for the murder of your wife. Anything that you say may be used against you."
THE UNPRINCIPLED AFFAIR OF THE PRACTICAL JOKER
The Zambesi, they said, was expected to dock at six in the morning. Mrs. Ruyslaender booked a bedroom at the Magnifical, with despair in her heart. A bare nine hours and she would be greeting her husband. After that would begin the sickening period of waiting—it might be days, it might be weeks, possibly even months—for the inevitable discovery.
The reception-clerk twirled the register towards her. Mechanically, as she signed it, she glanced at the preceding entry: