Noodle & Bao: A Graphic Novel

Perfect for fans of Animal Crossing and Measuring Up, this whimsical
and empowering middle grade graphic novel follows a girl who helps her
friend's humble food cart stand its ground against the gentrification
of their Ch

Author: Shaina Lu
ISBN: 9780063283428
Category: Adult
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Language: English
Publisher: Quill Tree Books
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.
“I suppose if the murdered man were here and could
speak, he’d say he was asleep too!” Roper grinned at
the sally.

“Young Mr. Considine and Captain Arkwright admitted to

a certain amount of wakefulness, sir,” he reminded the
Inspector.

“Yes—I know. Arkwright heard the ‘Spider’—I’ve no

doubt on that point—Jack Considine may have heard
anything—Marshall—Mrs. Webb, if you prefer it—
possibly leaving the billiard room—it’s an idea certainly.”

Roper pursed his lips together. “It’s the motives some

people may have had, sir, the motives that have to be
probed for. What’s that bit the French say about looking
for a woman always?”

“Cherchez la femme,” said Baddeley. “I wonder.”

“Any one of the people up at the Manor may be guilty,

sir, it seems to me,” continued the indefatigable Roper,
“and then again it may come back quite simply and
directly to ‘Spider’ Webb. The job is to pick out the main
trail and not go dashing off into side tracks that
eventually become blind alleys.”

“Very true, Roper, very true,” smiled Baddeley. “But it

isn’t quite so easy as you imagine; one of your side
tracks may turn out to be that main trail and what you
think is the main trail, may prove to be only a side
track.”

“That Mr. Bathurst’s a smart young fellow, sir. He’d have 152
done well in our line, don’t you think so?”
“Perhaps! You can’t always tell. What about those
prints?”

Roper took them out. “They’re all numbered, sir. And

I’ve got the corresponding numbers in my note-book.
And I fancy we’ve got pretty well everybody here.
Everybody that’s likely, that is!” He paused. Then
continued: “We haven’t got the ‘Spider’s,’ sir. You
haven’t forgotten that, have you?... And I’m thinking his
are the most likely.”

“No, I know, Roper. Easily get those from ‘the Yard’ if

necessary.”

Roper arranged the photographs. “I’ll put them in

numerical order, sir, that will simplify matters a bit.”

Baddeley picked up his magnifying glass and proceeded

on his course of comparison. But one by one he laid the
photos down again. Then suddenly he shot up from his
seat.

“You’ve clicked, Roper!” he shouted. He looked at the

back. “Number 9,” he exclaimed, “number nine for a
certainty, look—the identical loops and whorls—who in
the name of thunder is Nine—where’s your note-book—
quick, man, quick!” The prints had come out clearly and
distinctly. And when compared with the photograph of
those on the Venetian dagger, there didn’t remain the
shadow of a doubt that the same fingers had made
them. Roper flicked the leaves of his note-book.
“Number Nine, sir?” he queried. He ran his eye down
the page. “Major Hornby!”

Baddeley gasped. “This beats the band, Roper, but all 153
the same, mark my words, one of the three with a
motive that’s known. Well, I’m blessed.”
Roper looked wise and said nothing.

Baddeley’s mind went back. “He practically refused all

information when I questioned him, and told me to
mind my own business. If he’s the murderer of Prescott
he reckons we’ve got no proof at all ... he’ll try to put
up a big bluff. Now where do I stand? All I can put
against him so far is a motive, finger-prints on a dagger
that has played some part in the crime ... anything else?
I can’t put a truculent manner and attitude in as
compromising evidence.” He paced the room—
backwards and forwards. “Gets a darned sight more
complicated every step,” he grumbled.

“This dagger was kept in the drawing-room, wasn’t it,

sir?” said Roper.

“So I’m told. On what they called the curio table. What
are you driving at?”

“Well, I don’t somehow think the ‘Spider’ ever got into

the drawing-room.”

“Marshall may have taken it from the table.”

“Why don’t her finger-prints show then, sir?”

“True ... Major Hornby seems to have been the last

person to have used it.”

“He could easily have taken it to his bedroom, sir,”

continued Roper.

“Yes, he slept alone. It’s feasible. But why the deuce 154
was Prescott outside that night?” Baddeley blazed. “Tell
me that and I’ll tell you a lot more ... nothing I light on
seems to have any bearing on that point. And till I
know, I’m messing round in the dark.”

“Where does this Major Hornby hang out, sir?”

questioned Roper.

“Don’t know at the moment, but Sir Charles Considine

will let me know at once if I ask him. I think I will.”

Anthony and I were in the garden when the Inspector

arrived. He looked worried and puzzled but determined.

“Good-afternoon, gentlemen, Sir Charles about and

handy?”

Anthony looked at me. “Yes,” I said, “you’ll probably find

him in the library.”

“Thank you.” He passed through into the house, and it

was not for some days that I learned of the reason
underlying his visit or what transpired at his interview
with Sir Charles Considine. Our host, I imagine, was not
too pleased at Baddeley’s reappearance. We had had a
brief period of comparative quiet after the arrest of
Webb and his wife, and Sir Charles was expecting to be
left alone until the inquest. This advent of Baddeley
disturbed him and brought back the sinister influences
that he had been trying to forget.

“The address of Major Hornby? Of course you can have 155

it! But surely, Inspector, you don’t harbor any suspicions
against a gentleman of Major Hornby’s standing?”

“Not at all, Sir Charles,” replied Baddeley cheerfully. “I

merely want a little more information from the Major on
one particular point than he was able to give me when I
saw him previously. That is all, sir.”
Sir Charles rummaged through his pigeonholes. “Major
Hornby is a man of unimpeachable integrity, Baddeley—
a British Officer—don’t forget—and—er—a gentleman.
Here’s the address.” He turned a card over. Baddeley
took it. “Melville’s Hotel, Canterbury,” he read.

“Thank you, Sir Charles. Please accept my sincere

apologies for disturbing you. By the way—the inquest
has been fixed for Thursday.”

Sir Charles thanked him, and the Inspector bowed

himself out.

“I want you to motor me over to Canterbury, Roper,” he

announced as soon as he got back. “Major Hornby’s
staying there—it shouldn’t take us too long although,
being Bank Holiday, the roads are certain to be pretty
thick.” A couple of hours’ journey took them over, and
shortly afterwards the car drew up outside Melville’s
Hotel.

The Inspector sent up his card with the request that he

might see the Manager. A tall man—dark and rather
military-looking—quickly attended upon him.

Baddeley told him his errand. “Major Hornby is staying 156

here—certainly—he arrived late on Saturday evening—
but he is not in at the present moment.”

“Would he be likely to be long?” inquired the Inspector.

The Manager didn’t think so—he would speak to one of

the waiters. Would the Inspector be kind enough to
excuse him for a moment? Baddeley kicked his heels in
the vestibule. But his patience was not strained for long.
“Major Hornby is expected back for dinner—he has
asked his waiter to reserve him a corner seat at one of
the dining-tables. Will you wait, Inspector, or call back in
about an hour?” Baddeley thought the matter over for a
moment and decided to call back.

“Roper,” he said as he entered the car, “drive to a nice

little pub, where we can get a Guinness and something
to eat in a certain amount of seclusion. I’m getting a bit
peckish.”

Now this was a job near Roper’s heart, and he lost little
time in the fulfilment of the instruction. The saloon they
entered was moderately full, and divided into two
compartments, one of which was curtained off and
designated, “Smoke Lounge.” Baddeley elected to
remain in the ordinary compartment and was just
settling down to the enjoyment of his “snack” when the
fragment of a conversation from the other side of the
curtain arrested his attention and screwed all his
faculties to their highest pitch. “Well, Barker,” said a
voice that sounded strangely familiar, “I’m glad I met
you as you suggested—and I’m more than glad that
you’ve come to me for advice. I’ve given it to you, and I
hope you’ll decide to take it. It’s always as well in affairs
of this kind, to make a clean breast to somebody. And I
don’t imagine that the truth will ever be brought to light
now—so you can rest in peace.”

Baddeley’s eyes met Roper’s—he put his finger to his 157

lips.

“Thanks awfully, Major,” came the reply, “it’s been no

end of a worry wondering what has been found out,
and what hasn’t, and I’m deuced glad to have told you.
I’ll say good-night”; and before Baddeley could offer any
further warning—the heavy, dark-blue curtain parted
and there stepped out Lieutenant Barker. Without
noticing their presence, he strode across the apartment
and disappeared. The Inspector gripped the edge of the
table with his fingers. Then he leaned across and
addressed his companion.

“I’m going to strike while the iron’s hot,” he whispered.

“You stay here and listen—I’m going in there to have a
word with Major Hornby. Don’t move from this table till
you see me again.”

Roper accepted the situation with an understanding

nod, and Baddeley pushed the curtains to one side and
stepped through.

“Good-evening, Major Hornby,” he said cordially. “May I

sit down?”

Major Hornby looked up in amazement. Then his

breeding got the better of his inclinations. He suffered
himself to return the Inspector’s greeting. He then
turned nonchalantly to the table and emptied his glass.
This accomplished he rose as though to go. Baddeley
raised his hand.

“I want a word with you, Major,” he spoke very quietly, 158

and not without dignity, “and, believe me, I have come
some miles to get it.”

Major Hornby shrugged his shoulders. Then he spoke

very coldly. “You are imposing a distinct strain on my
forbearance, Inspector Baddeley—I have already given
you all the information I can. That should satisfy even
your fund of curiosity.”

“All the information you can?” queried Baddeley, “or all

the information you intend to give me?”
Hornby eyed him with strong disfavor. “Call it what you
choose.”

Baddeley’s impatience mastered him. “Look here,

Major,” he said, “I’m going to be perfectly frank with
you, and I’m not going to beat about the bush.” Hornby
raised his eyebrows.

“I’m afraid I’m at a loss to——”

Baddeley cut him short. Lowering his voice considerably

he leaned right across the table, and something in his
persistence compelled Hornby to listen attentively. “You
will remember, Major, that Mr. Prescott besides having
been strangled—had been stabbed at the base of the
neck with a dagger—known to Sir Charles Considine,
your late host, and to his intimates, as the Venetian
dagger?”

Major Hornby showed signs of assent. The Inspector 159

proceeded. “That dagger was prepared and
photographed on my instructions, immediately after I
first arrived on the scene, and on the result showed a
distinct set of finger-marks.” His companion began to
show evidence of interest. “Now, Major,” and here
Baddeley grew grave, “I made it my business to obtain
a set of finger-prints of the various people I
encountered in the house”—he was studying Hornby
very carefully now—“and I have compared the
incriminating set with the specimens I managed to
obtain.” He paused.

“I’m all attention, Inspector,” said the Major. “And you

discovered——?”

“That the finger-prints were yours—Major Hornby.”

“Really, Inspector—now that’s most interesting—when
are you going to arrest me?”

Baddeley waved the sarcasm on one side. “Can you

explain what I have just told you?”

Hornby pulled at his top lip, thoughtfully.

“Quite easily to a point,” he said. He looked at the

Inspector, who showed no sign. Hornby went on. “I held
that dagger in my hand on the evening before Prescott
was murdered.”

“What were the circumstances?”

The Major smiled. “Nothing suspicious. After dinner that

evening, we were talking about crime——”

Baddeley was immediately alert. “What? Who was?”

“All of us. The conversation was general. Why do you

ask?”

“Who was responsible for the turn the conversation 160

took? Anybody in particular—think carefully—it may be
of the greatest importance?”

“Well, if you ask me, Inspector, it was Bathurst—he

rather fancies himself, you know, in the sleuth line.
Can’t think of anybody else. Yes, I’m sure he began it.”

Baddeley nodded. “All right! Go on!”

Hornby reflected. “Where was I?”

“Talking about crime,” muttered his companion grimly.

“Only talking——”
“Oh yes! Well, the conversation got pretty well going—
murders and detectives and what not, and it didn’t
seem likely that cards would be started for some little
time—and I wandered round the drawing-room. When I
got to the curio table, as it was called, my eyes fell on
the Venetian dagger. I couldn’t help thinking how it
fitted in with the subject of the reigning conversation. I
picked it up and examined it with some interest—and
the thought came to me that it might have sent more
than one soul into eternity.”

The Inspector listened eagerly, and with some

impatience.

“Yes, yes!” he said. “What then?”

Major Hornby shook his head—“There’s nothing more to

tell. I put the dagger back on the table and shortly
afterwards started to play cards.”

Baddeley thought for a moment. His next question the

Major thought surprising.

“Tell me, Major Hornby,” he said, “when you were 161

examining the dagger, did you by any chance happen to
notice if any person in the room was watching you?”

Hornby looked him straight in the eyes. “That’s very

remarkable—because I did.”

“Who was it?” The Inspector’s eyes gleamed with

excitement.

“Gerald Prescott!”

Baddeley pushed his chair back—then mastered his

discomfiture. Hornby eyed him with cool nonchalance.
“And I can tell you something else of importance. When
I went to bed that night—the Venetian dagger had gone
from the curio table!! Because I looked.”

162
 CHAPTER XIII
MR. BATHURST POTS THE RED

The next morning Mary joined me in the garden—just

after breakfast. She looked lovelier than ever, although
it was obvious to the careful observer that she was
troubled. “Bill,” she said, “you haven’t spoken to poor
Mrs. Prescott since her arrival yesterday—she had all
her meals in her room, you know—come and see her
this morning—if only to please me. It’s been heart-
breaking to talk to her. He was her only son.”

I was conscious of a certain feeling of resentment. It

was absurd of her upsetting herself like this—Prescott
was dead and it was all exceedingly sad and all that—
but it didn’t please me to see the shadows in Mary’s
face over it. I gently remonstrated with her.

“You mustn’t let yourself be worried about this affair,

Mary,” I said, “it’s bad enough I know, and pretty
sickening happening here and at this time—rotten for
Sir Charles and your mother—but hang it all, it might
have been a lot worse.”

She looked at me reproachfully. “What do you mean,”

she asked, “in what way?”
“Well,” I responded, awkwardly I admit, “it might have 163
been Jack—or—er Captain Arkwright—one of the family
you might say—Prescott wasn’t exactly a ‘nearest and
dearest.’”

She scanned my face curiously. “No, Bill,” she remarked

very quietly, “he wasn’t exactly. But I’ve had to face his
mother and I can’t forget that he was our guest and
that it was in our house that he met his death—that he
came to his death here,” she wrung her hands in the
emotion of her distress—“it makes me feel so
responsible.”

“Rot!” I exclaimed, “it might have happened to him

anywhere—you can’t prevent a crime—now and then.”

“It might have, Bill, but it didn’t. And that’s just all that
matters.”

“Again, it might have been worse, too, from the other

standpoint.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother’s pearls. We’ve recovered them when the

odds seemed pretty hopeless.”

“What do they matter? Bill”—she put her hand on my

sleeve, “you can do me a favor. Tell Mr. Bathurst I
should like to have a chat with him.”

“When?”

“Oh—when it’s convenient—this afternoon, say.”

“All right,” I replied. “What are you doing this morning?”

“I’m going to take Mrs. Prescott out of herself—if I can.
Come and see her.”

I disliked the job as much as Mary had dreaded it, but

courtesy demanded it.

Mrs. Prescott was a tall woman with white hair— 164

somewhere I should judge in the early “fifties.” She was
completely mistress of her feelings and gave an
immediate impression of efficiency and capability. I
learned afterwards that she had founded the florist’s
business in Kensington that had achieved such
remarkable success and had been the foundation stone
of the family fortunes, and was herself at the time of
which I speak a Justice of the Peace. The blow she had
received had been a very heavy one, but she was
unmistakably facing it with courage.

“Good-morning, Mr. Cunningham,” she greeted me

quietly.

“You know me then, Mrs. Prescott?” I asked, not

without surprise.

“Gerald”—there was a little catch in her throat—“pointed

you out to me at Lords’ a month ago.”

I was momentarily at a loss. I had expected a grief-

stricken woman bordering on hysteria, and this quiet
and courageous resignation stirred me greatly.

“I see,” I responded. Then murmured a few words of

condolence.

“Thank you,” she said, “thank you. As you say, Mr.

Cunningham, his death is a terrible thing—but the idea
that he has been murdered, and that his memory will be
attached for always to that murder, I find even more
terrible and nerve-racking. If I don’t summon all my
strength to my aid—I fear I shall give way to the horror
of it.”

I expressed my most sincere sympathy, and Mary

Considine caught her two hands and pressed them.

“You’re wonderful,” she cried, “to endure things as you 165

have. And I’m going to try to help you to endure them
even better.”

Mrs. Prescott smiled very sweetly. “You are very kind,

my dear,” she said. “But I feel this, Mr. Cunningham,”
she turned in my direction, “that I owe it to my son’s
memory to leave no stone unturned to find the man or
woman who killed him.” The look of patient resignation
on her face gave way to one of steady resolution. She
continued—talking seemed to relieve her grief a little,
perhaps.

“I’m certain of one thing. I’m absolutely certain, in my

own mind, that when Gerald came down here to
Considine Manor, he had no worries, no trouble on his
mind, and that whatever dark passions encompassed
his end—were awakened very recently.”

Mary’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“Oh, don’t say that, Mrs. Prescott,” she said. “I can’t

bear to think that this came to him when he was our
guest—I’ve just been telling Mr. Cunningham the same
thing.”

Mrs. Prescott smiled sadly. “You have nothing with

which to reproach yourself, my dear. I just know that
when Gerald came here he was intensely happy and
glad to come. Therefore, whatever cause brought about
his death, had its origin down here. That’s all I mean.”
She put her arm round Mary’s shoulders. I heard a step
behind—it was Anthony. Mary introduced him.

“I am pleased to meet Mr. Bathurst,” said Mrs. Prescott. 166

“I have heard already from Sir Charles Considine of
what you have done for him. Perhaps you will be able to
do something for me.”

Anthony bowed. “I am at your service, Mrs. Prescott—

command me. How can I help you?”

She repeated to him her previous words to us. Anthony

knitted his brows.

“I appreciate,” he said, “the fact that you are speaking

with intimate knowledge which makes what you say
especially valuable—you are quite assured that your son
had no shadow on his life when he came down here?”

“I am positive of it, Mr. Bathurst,” Mrs. Prescott replied.

“Of course it may have been some phase of the robbery
Mary has told me about, but something tells me it
wasn’t—the cause lies outside that.” She shook her
head.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Prescott,” interposed Anthony. “I

should like to ask you a question—can you in any
obscure or roundabout way connect your son—
legitimately of course—with any previous jewel
robbery?”

A look of amazement spread over her features.

Anthony continued quickly. “I’m afraid I’ve put it to you

very awkwardly and clumsily—but this is what I’m
driving at. Has he, for example, ever been stopping at a
country house that has been robbed while he has been
there? The kind of experience, we will say, that would
cause him to be on the qui vive were he confronted a
second time with the possibility?”

“I don’t altogether follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” she 167

answered, “so I don’t know whether I can answer you
satisfactorily—but I don’t know of any connection of the
kind you have indicated.”

“I have a reason for asking,” he intervened quickly.

“There is abundant circumstantial evidence that your
son, on the evening of the murder, may have been
outside the billiard room window—almost in the same
spot as this man Webb. If it were he, what took him
there?”

“If he were there, Mr. Bathurst,” said Mrs. Prescott, “you

may depend upon it, that he had a good and honorable
reason for going.”

Anthony bowed. “I see no reason to doubt the accuracy

of your opinion.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bathurst.”

“But, all the same, I must confess to being mystified

with regard to those footprints.”

“The whole affair is a mystery,” she answered, “that

may never be solved.”

“Not the whole affair, Mrs. Prescott—some aspects are

becoming increasingly plain—and I hope in time to solve
it all!” Anthony’s jaw set.
“That will mean a lot to me, Mr. Bathurst,” she said.
“Perhaps more than I can tell you.” She turned to Mary.
“I’ll come with you now, dear, as you suggested. Good-
bye to you two gentlemen. But there, I’m sure to see
you again.” They passed out of the room together and
left us.

“What are you doing this morning, Holmes?” I sallied.

Anthony looked at me whimsically.

“I’m thinking of having another look at things,” he said; 168

“there are one or two things I should like to make more
sure of.”

“What are they?” I inquired curiously.

“I should like to have a look at the billiard room—and

Prescott’s bedroom,” he replied unconcernedly. “I’m
building up a theory and I would like to test it in one or
two places. Come with me?”

“Delighted,” I answered. “Billiard room first?”

“As you please,” said he. We ascended the stairs. In the

sunshine of the morning, there seemed to remain no
trace of the dreadful secret the room held. The table,
bereft of its ghastly burden of a few days since, only
spoke of the game it stood for. It was a difficult matter
to realize all that had happened since the last game that
had been played upon it.

“These chairs were overturned, Bill, and this poker was

lying on the floor—remember?”

I did—and I said so. He went full length on the floor and

took a magnifying-glass from his pocket.
“I’m rather sceptical about the magnifying-glass stunts
you get in detective novels,” he muttered, “but I want
an extra-special look at this floor-covering.

“No,” he said as he arose, “I can’t see any signs of any

struggle—there are no scratches that would evade the
naked eye, of feet moved uncontrollably like in a fight or
wrestle. And what is more, Bill, I particularly noticed
when Marshall gave the alarm, that although Prescott’s
brown shoes were muddy—there was no trace of any
mud on the floor here. Think of that, laddie.”

“It might happen so,” I ventured. 169

“Hardly likely, Bill! There was an appreciable amount of

mud on the brown shoes, and one would reasonably
expect to find a few traces if Prescott had been engaged
in a struggle. In a fight or a wrestle—such as might
have taken place here, there is far more pressure of the
feet on the ground and certainly more friction than is
got by ordinary walking—don’t you see?”

“Yes,” I conceded. “I see what you mean.”

“Yet,” he went on, “I am certain that there were no

mud-marks on the floor. Which suggests a number of
entertaining possibilities.” He frowned.

“You haven’t told me yet,” I urged, “of those three

definite clues you picked up right at the outset. Still
liking the look of them? I’m curious!”

“One of ’em has been dragged to light, Bill, and I’m very
satisfied with its results—the other two I’m still keeping
—for the time being at all events.”
I felt annoyed. All faithful Watsons were not treated in
this cavalier manner. They were always admitted
willingly and readily into the confidential intimacies. I
voiced a complaint. I thought a semi-humorous strain
might become the matter best.

“How, my dear Anthony,” I began, “can you reasonably

expect to be guided by the best gleams of my
superlative intelligence and highly-powered imagination,
if you persist in withholding important information from
me?” He flashed a smile at me. Then his face took on a
more serious aspect.

“Pardon me, Bill—not exactly information. You have 170

seen the same things as I have seen—I’m keeping
nothing from you—the difference is that a certain two
points made a vivid impression on me—and they didn’t
on you.”

“All right, then,” I returned, “I plead guilty. What were

they?”

“If I tell you, Bill, and eventually we find that their

significance was much less than I imagine, you’ll never
believe in me again—and I can’t possibly run the risk of
that.”

I could see that nothing I could do would shake his

determination. So I turned the subject.

“Are you in a hurry to look over Prescott’s bedroom

again?”

“It depends on what you mean by a ‘hurry.’”

“Well, what about a 100 up before we go?” I took a cue

and walked to the billiard-table.
“Right-O,” said Anthony. “A little relaxation won’t harm
either of us.”

The three balls were in the bottom right-hand pocket

where they had lain, presumably, for some days.

“Let’s have them,” I cried. “Spot or Plain?”

“Anything,” he answered. “Spot!” He put his flat hand,

palm upwards, underneath the pocket and sent the balls
rolling on to the green cloth.

“Go on,” I said, “break.” He opened by giving me the 171

usual point. I replied by coming off the red ball on to
the spot-ball and in attempting a second cannon I
failed, leaving the red nicely in front of the bottom right-
hand pocket. Anthony smiled in appreciative approval.

“Thank you, Bill!” He promptly potted the red. “I can

see visions of a nice healthy little break here,” said he,
as he sidled round to pick the red ball out. He plunged
his hand into the pocket. Then I saw his face register
surprise.

“What’s up?” I queried half-interestedly.

“Something down here in the pocket, Bill,” he returned.

“A piece of paper.” He drew out a twisted piece of paper
and smoothed it out with his fingers—it was a portion of
envelope. In a second it flashed into my mind what it
was. Something seemed to hammer it into my brain
instantaneously. Before my tongue could give sound to
the message that was flooding my brain Anthony spoke
very quietly, and very gravely. I remember that I
marvelled at the time that he could retain so
undisturbed an equanimity.
“Bill,” he said, “Barker’s I.O.U.! By Jove!”

“How the devil did it come there?” I exclaimed.

He thought for a second or two before replying. “Well,

taking all the circumstances into consideration, not such
an unlikely place, after all, to find it. Prescott’s body lay
across this table, near this particular pocket, and it’s
quite conceivable that (1) the I.O.U. fell in some
manner from his coat pocket into the billiard-table
pocket or (2) the I.O.U. was taken from the body by the
murderer, and dropped, either in the struggle or
afterwards. The murderer might even have searched the
room for it—assuming that he wanted it badly—and
never imagined that it had fallen where it had.”

“Yes,” I assented. “I follow you. How was it”—I went on 172

—“that you didn’t notice it when you took the balls out
just now?”

“There were three balls in this pocket then. I knocked

them out from outside the pocket—when I plunged my
hand in to get out the red ball, I felt this piece of
envelope.”

“I see.”

“And there’s something more that I can contribute, Bill!”

He wrinkled his forehead as was his habit when
endeavoring to remember something very accurately or
in extreme detail. “When we were called to this room at
seven o’clock that morning by Marshall, the three balls
were in the pocket then. I can recall them distinctly—
Prescott’s body was lying across the bottom of the table.
He was partly on his right shoulder, and his right arm
was hanging over the side—very near the pocket where
I’ve found the I.O.U. I can remember looking at the
limp arm hanging there—and then looking into the
pocket and seeing the balls. I can——” he stopped
suddenly. “But there’s something wrong somewhere,
there’s a difference—there’s a——” he thrust his hands
into his pockets and paced the room. When he turned in
my direction again, I could see that his eyes were
closed. He was thinking hard. “It will come back to me,”
he muttered. “There was the arm—there were the three
balls—there was the dagger——” he snapped his
fingers. Then he swung around.

“Got it?” I asked curiously. 173

“Got what?”

“Whatever was eluding you?”

He smiled. “I think so,” he answered, “anyway the three

balls were there—it was impossible to see the piece of
envelope even if we had thought of looking there. But, I
must confess, it didn’t occur to me. And evidently also,
it didn’t occur to the worthy Baddeley.”

“Going to tell him?” I queried.

“Afraid we ought to! Still I don’t see why we should ...

yet. On second thoughts, I think we’ll put it back in its
little nest ... in this selfsame pocket. For the time being,
William, we will remember, we twain, that ‘Silence is
Golden’ and that Inspector Baddeley didn’t call us a lot
of ‘tight-lips’ unreasonably.”

I looked at the I.O.U. There it was as Barker had

described it. Just a mere scrawl. But possibly it had cost
a man his life. And might cost another his. “I.O.U. £208.
Malcolm V. Barker.” Anthony held his hand out for it.
“Let’s put it back, Bill. It will suit my book if it lie there