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The poet had brushed the reluctant mud off his garments to the extent it was willing to go, and had washed his face, but his eyes were still bloodshot from the cultivation of the Beautiful. Denzil was accompanying Crowl to the door of the Club out of good fellowship. Denzil was himself accompanied by Grodman, though less obtrusively.
It seemed to shut her in with the dead. She waited in the passage. After an age seven minutes by any honest clock Grodman made his appearance, looking as dressed as usual, but with unkempt hair and with disconsolate side-whisker. He was not quite used to that side-whisker yet, for it had only recently come within the margin of cultivation.
"But why don't you give him up to justice?" he murmured. "Ah it has to be proved yet. But it is only a matter of time." "Oh!" said Denzil, "and shall I write the story for you?" "No. You will not live long enough." Denzil turned white. "Nonsense! I am years younger than you," he gasped. "Yes," said Grodman, "but you drink so much."
Grodman says so," said Denzil, startled again. "H'm! Isn't that rather a proof that it was suicide? Well, go on." "About a fortnight before the suicide, Jessie Dymond disappeared. So they tell me in Stepney Green, where she lodged and worked." "What was she?" "She was a dressmaker. She had a wonderful talent. Quite fashionable ladies got to know of it. One of her dresses was presented at Court.
Grodman broke in the door she saw her unhappy gentleman-lodger lying on his back in bed, stone dead, with a gaping red wound in his throat; how her stronger-minded companion calmed her a little by spreading a handkerchief over the distorted face; how they then looked vainly about and under the bed for any instrument by which the deed could have been done, the veteran detective carefully making a rapid inventory of the contents of the room, and taking notes of the precise position and condition of the body before anything was disturbed by the arrival of gapers or bunglers; how she had pointed out to him that both the windows were firmly bolted to keep out the cold night air; how, having noted this down with a puzzled, pitying shake of the head, he had opened the window to summon the police, and espied in the fog one Denzil Cantercot, whom he called, and told to run to the nearest police-station and ask them to send on an inspector and a surgeon; how they both remained in the room till the police arrived, Grodman pondering deeply the while and making notes every now and again, as fresh points occurred to him, and asking her questions about the poor, weak-headed young man.
Or he had got behind the door when Grodman broke it open, so that he was not noticed in the excitement of the discovery, and escaped with his weapon at the moment when Grodman and Mrs. Drabdump were examining the window fastenings. Scientific explanations also were to hand to explain how the assassin locked and bolted the door behind him.
The two men were so full of their coming coups that they struggled for some seconds, side by side, before they recognised each other. Then they shook hands heartily. "That was Cantercot just went in, wasn't it, Grodman?" said Wimp. "I didn't notice," said Grodman, in tones of utter indifference. At bottom Wimp was terribly excited.
Still," he added aloud, "it will be as well for you to take down his statement in shorthand." "Thank you, sir," said Grodman, heartily. "Ready, Mr. Templeton? Here goes. My career till I left the Scotland Yard Detective Department is known to all the world. Is that too fast for you, Mr. Templeton? A little? Well, I'll go slower; but pull me up if I forget to keep the brake on.
Wilfred Wimp the little boy who stole the jam was in great form at the Christmas dinner. The only drawback to his enjoyment was that its sweets needed no stealing. His mother presided over the platters, and thought how much cleverer Grodman was than her husband. When the pretty servant who waited on them was momentarily out of the room, Grodman had remarked that she seemed very inquisitive.
Denzil had bought the paper and scanned it eagerly, but there was nothing save the vague assurance that the indefatigable Grodman was still almost pathetically expectant of the miracle. Denzil did not share the expectation; he meditated flight. "Peter," he said at last, "I'm afraid it's all over." Crowl nodded, heart-broken. "All over!" he repeated, "and to think that he dies and it is all over!"
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