“‘Royal British Life Assurance Society,’” repeated he, reading off the single line printed on the upper left-hand corner of the envelope. “What the dickens——I say, is it a policy?”
“Aha!” assented Cleek, with his mouth full of smoke. “The medico who put me through my paces, some time ago, reported me sound in wind and limb, and warranted not to bite, shy, or kick over the traces, and I was duly ordered to turn up at the London office before noon on a given day to sign up (and pay down) and receive that interesting document, otherwise my application would be void, et cetera. This, as it happens, is the ‘given day’ in question; and as the office doesn’t open for business before ten A. M., and there wasn’t the least likelihood of my being able to get back to it before noon, when you were calling for me—‘there you have the whole thing in a nutshell,’ as the old woman said when she poisoned the filberts.”
Meanwhile, Narkom had opened the envelope and glanced over the document it contained. He now sat up with a jerk and voiced a cry of amazement.
“Good Lord, deliver us!” he exclaimed. “In favour of Dollops!”
“Yes,” said Cleek. “He’s a faithful little monkey and—I’ve nothing else to leave him. There’s always a chance, you know—with Margot’s lot and Waldemar’s. I shouldn’t like to think of the boy being forced back into the streets if—anything should happen to me.”
“Well, I’ll be——What a man! What a man! Cleek, my dear, dear friend—my comrade—my pal——”
“Chuck it! Scotland Yard with the snuffles is enough to make the gods shriek, you dear old footler! Why, God bless your old soul, I——Brakes on! Let’s talk about the new limousine. She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Locker, mirror: just like the old red one, and——Hello! I say, you are taking me into the country, I perceive; we’ve left the town behind us.”
“Yes; we’re bound for Darsham.”
“Darsham? That’s in Suffolk, isn’t it? And about ninety-five miles from Liverpool Street Station, as the crow flies. So our little business to-day is to be an out-of-town affair, eh? Well, let’s have it. What’s the case? Burglary?”
“No—murder. Happened last night. Got the news over the telephone this morning. Nearly bowled me over when I heard it, by James! for I saw the man alive—in town—only the day before yesterday. It’s a murder of a peculiarly cunning and cleverly contrived character, Cleek, with no apparent motive, and absolutely no clue as to what means the assassin used to kill his victim, nor how he managed to get in and out of the place in which the crime was committed. There isn’t the slightest mark on the body. The man was not shot, not stabbed, not poisoned, nor did he die from natural causes. There is no trace of a struggle, yet the victim’s face shows that he died in great agony, and was beyond all question the object of a murderous attack.”