Reggie drew the shaking woman through the room into the passage. “That’s the door to your cellar. Open it. Come on.” Bell held the lamp overhead behind them. Reggie led her stumbling down the stairs, and Brightman followed close.
A musty, dank smell came about them. The lamplight showed a large cellar of brick walls and an earth floor. There was in it a small heap of coal, some sacks and packing - cases and barrels, but most of the dim space was empty. The light glistened on damp.
“Clay soil,” Reggie murmured, and smiled at Brightman. “Yes. That was indicated.”
“I don’t understand you, sir,” said Brightman.
“No. You don’t. Torch, Bell,” He took it and flashed its beam about the cellar. “Oh, yes.” He turned to Bell. With a finger he indicated the shining tracks of slugs. “You see?”
“I do,” Bell muttered. Mrs. Brightman gave a choked, hysterical laugh.
Reggie moved to and fro. He stooped. He took out his pocket - book and from it a piece of paper, and with that scraped something from a barrel side, something from the clay floor, and sighed satisfaction. Standing up, he moved the ray of the torch from place to place, held it steady at last to make a circle of light on the ground beneath the steps. “There,” he said, and Mrs. Brightman screamed. “Yes. I know. That’s where you put her. Look, Bell.” His finger pointed to a slug’s trail which came into the circle of light, stopped, and went on again at another part of the circle. “It didn’t jump. They don’t.”
He swung round upon Mrs. Brightman. He held out to her the piece of paper cupped in his hand. On it lay two yellow slugs. She flung herself back, crying loathing and fear.
“Really, gentlemen, really now,” Brightman stammered. “This isn’t right. This isn’t proper. You’ve no call to frighten a poor woman so. Come away now, Florrie, dearie.” He pulled at her.
“Where are you going?” Reggie murmured. She did not go. Her eyes were set on the two yellow slugs. “‘Where their worm dieth not,’” Reggie said slowly. She broke out in screams of hysterical laughter; she tore herself from Brightman, and reeled and fell down writhing and yelling.
“So that is that, Mr. Brightman.” Reggie turned to him.
“You’re a wicked soul!” Brightman whined. “My poor dearie!” He fell on his knees by her; he began to pray forgiveness for her sins.
“My oath!” Bell muttered, and ran up the steps shouting to his men….
Some time afterwards the detective left to keep the little shop ushered Reggie out. On the other side of the street, aloof from the gaping, gossiping crowd, superior and placid, his chauffeur smoked a cigarette. It was thrown away; the chauffeur followed him, fell into step beside him. “Did I manage all right, sir? “The chauffeur invited praise.
“You did. Very neat. Very effective. As you know. Side, Sam, side. We are good at destruction. Efficient incinerators. Humble function. Other justification for existence, doubtful. However. Study to improve. What we want now is a toyshop.”
“Sir? “Sam was puzzled.
“I said a toyshop,” Reggie complained. “A good toyshop. Quick.” …
The last of the sunlight was shining into the little room at the hospital where Eddie Hill lay. Upon his bed stood part of a bridge built of strips of metal bolted together, a bridge of grand design. He and Reggie were working on the central span.
There was a tap at the door, a murmur from Reggie, and the nurse brought in Bell. He stood looking at Reggie with reproachful surprise. “So that’s what you’re doing,” he protested.
“Yes. Something useful at last.” Reggie sighed. “Well, well. We’ll have to call this a day, young man. You’ve done enough. Mustn’t get yourself tired.”
“I’m not tired,” the boy protested eagerly. “I’m not, really.”
“No. Of course not. Ever so much better. But there’s another day to - morrow. And you have a big job. Must keep fit to go on with it.”
“All right.” The boy lay back, looked at his bridge, looked wistfully at Reggie. “I can keep this here, can I, sir?”
“Rather. On the table by the bed. So it’ll be there when you wake. Nice, making things, isn’t it? Yes. You’re going to make a lot now. Good - bye. Jolly, to - morrow, what? Good - bye.” He went out with Bell.
“Now what’s the matter with you?” he complained.
“Well, I had to have a word with you, sir. This isn’t going to be so easy. I thought I’d get you at the mortuary doing the post - mortem.”
“Minor matter. Simple matter. Only the dead buryin’ their dead. The boy was urgent. Matter of savin’ life there.”
“I’m not saying you’re not right,” said Bell wearily. “But it is a tangle of a case. The divisional surgeon reports Mrs. Brightman’s mad. Clean off her head.”
“Yes. I agree. What about it?”
“Seemed to me you pretty well drove her to it. Those slugs - oh, my Lord.”
