“Yes. That is so,” Reggie murmured. “Leaving you with the original problems unsolved. Why was the dagger taken away from her? Why was it taken away after Dodd was killed?”
Lomas laughed. “My dear Reginald! Abandon your fixed idea of suicide and everything is perfectly simple. They took the dagger away because it didn’t occur to them any brilliant expert could think the woman had committed suicide. They knew they’d murdered her. They knew the dagger would prove the murder had been done by somebody who had access to the house - somebody who’d been in it just when they were. So they went off with it, and then they came up against Dodd. Notice the times. They left round about ten, going back for Faustine’s party. Dodd was going there too. He lived in Kensington, close by the Rooks, and he started about ten. They’d all get to Bloomsbury just before the storm. They met. Possibly Dodd had seen something too much. Possibly he’d heard something. So he had to be killed too. And again the dagger couldn’t be left or it would have linked his murder with the Rooks’ house.”
“That’s right,” Bell nodded. “You haven’t heard yet, Mr. Fortune - not far from where Dodd’s body was, we found a sodden muck of an evening paper all messed up with blood. That’s what the dagger was wiped on the second time.”
“Yes - Quite likely. Yes,” Reggie murmured.
“Well, Reginald? “Lomas gave him a quizzical smile. “Is it still suicide?”
“Oh, yes. Not a doubt. Actually suicide. Legally suicide. Morally murder. Same like father was murdered. But Golly Dodd was murdered in fact and law. We ought to get somebody for that. We can get somebody.” He gazed at Lomas with a cold anger. “What are you doing about it?” he said sharply.
“I’ve been trying to persuade you to hear reason,” Lomas snapped.
“What? “Reggie’s blue eyes gleamed. “You mean alter my evidence to make a case? No, thank you.”
“I said nothing of the sort. I was putting the whole facts before you.”
“The whole!” Reggie’s voice went up. “Oh, my hat! One small fraction.”
“What did you want us to do, Mr. Fortune?” said Bell anxiously.
“My dear chap! Quite obvious. We must know what Golly Dodd did after leavin’ his house last night. How did he go to Bloomsbury - take a taxi, walk to the tube, or what?”
“Ah. I’ve put men to work on that,” said Bell with satisfaction. “You gave me the hint last night. You gave me another, too. About watching the woman and Florian and Lindsay. Well, she went round to Florian first and then Lindsay this morning. Didn’t stay long either place. They were both out. Florian was at a cafe - one of those artists’ places; Lindsay had gone to his college.”
“Well, well. Very zealous of Goldilocks. So she hasn’t talked to her two survivin’ bears. I wonder. We’d better have a talk with ‘em all. It might be usefully conducted in Rook’s house, in the room from which the dagger came. And, while the three are thus occupied, further search should be made in the men’s homes for the missin’ dagger and any clothes with stains.”
Lomas meditated. “Very well,” he decided. “That’s justified. But I don’t hope much from it. Nothing was found in Faustine’s place - and the men - they’ve had time enough to clear up. Most likely the dagger’s in the river by now.”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured.
“My dear fellow, would you keep a thing which would convict you?”
“No. I shouldn’t. No. When I manage a crime, there won’t be anything for you to play with.”
“What are you thinking of now? “Lomas looked at him curiously. “Things for somebody to play with?”
“You don’t see the possibilities,” Reggie sighed. “However. Lunch is indicated. Come and lunch with me. Stimulus to the intellect.”
While Bell set his machinery to work, they drove to a little quiet restaurant in Soho much admired by Mr. Fortune. “Subtlety is what we need, Raymond,” he instructed the proprietor. “Subtlety and a certain cold vigour. Bayonne ham, I think. And then a fish salad. Turbot with my own salad. Don’t spare the tarragon. Yes, your mignonettes of veal. Admirable. And raspberries with dry curacao in the cream. Montrachet, please.” He turned to Lomas. “Will that do?”
“A charming lady’s lunch,” said Lomas.
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!” Reggie mourned for him. “No sex in it. Pure mind.” And while they ate he talked of the hill towns of Tuscany and the philosophy of Croce. Lomas does not frequent Italy nor read philosophers. The combined consequence was that he came to the house in Kensington impatient.
Bell met them there. “I’ve got the woman and that chap Florian, sir. Lindsay’s being brought along. He’s giving a lecture at his college. Which of ‘em will you begin with?”
“Ladies first,” said Reggie. “And the man can wait. Educative for him.”
“That’s all right,” Lomas agreed. “The woman is the key to everything.”
They went up to Rook’s study, and Bell brought Faustine. She was not in mourning, unless the little black hat cocked over one eye had been meant to express grief. Her frock had a fierce geometrical pattern of green on white. She was painted as vividly as usual, and dark curves under her eyes emphasised the pain and the sharpness of her face.
“Why ever do you bring me up here?” she said plaintively.
Lomas jumped at that opening. “To your father’s room? I thought it the most natural place, Miss Rook.”
“Don’t be ghastly!” Her voice was shrill.
