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Updated: May 31, 2025
What's put salt on your wounds?" "The twenty-fourth edition of my book." "Whose book?" "Well, your book. You must be making piles of money out of Criminals I have Caught." "'Criminals I have Caught," corrected Grodman. "My dear Denzil, how often am I to point out that I went through the experiences that make the backbone of my book, not you? In each case I cooked the criminal's goose.
Only once did he use the two words, but he was satisfied. As to the alibi, he had not yet troubled her; but to take its existence for granted would upset and discomfort Wimp. For the moment that was triumph enough for Wimp's guest. "Par," said Wilfred Wimp, "what's a alleybi? A marble?" "No, my lad," said Grodman, "it means being somewhere else when you're supposed to be somewhere."
But you said 'Let us find out all that Arthur Constant did in the last few months of his life. Wimp couldn't miss stumbling on Jessie sooner or later. I'd have throttled Constant, if I had known he'd touched her," he wound up with irrelevant indignation. Grodman winced at the idea that he himself had worked ad majorem gloriam of Wimp. And yet, had not Mrs.
Wimp was a man of taste and culture. Grodman's interests were entirely concentrated on the problems of logic and evidence. Wimp, with his flexible intellect, had a great contempt for Grodman and his slow, laborious, ponderous, almost Teutonic methods. Worse, he almost threatened to eclipse the radiant tradition of Grodman by some wonderfully ingenious bits of workmanship.
"Come to the point, come to the point," said the Home Secretary, putting out his hand as if it itched to touch the bell on the writing-table. "Such as," went on Grodman, imperturbably, "such as Mrs. Drabdump.
In Grodman's eye there danced an amused scorn of Wimp; to the outsider his amusement appeared at the expense of the poet. Having wrought his rival up to the highest pitch, Grodman slyly and suddenly unstrung him. "How lucky for Denzil!" he said, still in the same naive, facetious Christmasy tone, "that he can prove an alibi in this Constant affair." "An alibi!" gasped Wimp. "Really?" "Oh, yes.
Perhaps the desire to enjoy his greatness among his early cronies counted for something, too, for he had been born and bred at Bow, receiving when a youth his first engagement from the local police quarters, whence he had drawn a few shillings a week as an amateur detective in his leisure hours. Grodman was still a bachelor.
He wrote to her, of course, sometimes the landlady knew his writing." Wimp looked Denzil straight in the eyes, and said, "You mean, of course, to accuse Mortlake of the murder of Mr. Constant?" "N-n-no, not at all," stammered Denzil, "only you know what Mr. Grodman wrote to the Pell Mell. The more we know about Mr. Constant's life the more we shall know about the manner of his death.
Robinson to say the cut was made by another hand; but in the absence of any theory as to how the cut could possibly have been made by that other hand, we should be driven back to the theory of self-infliction, however improbable it may seem to medical gentlemen. Now, what are the facts? When Mrs. Drabdump and Mr. Grodman found the body it was yet warm, and Mr.
"Locked and bolted," muttered Grodman, shaking the door afresh. "Burst it open," breathed the woman, trembling violently all over, and holding her hands before her as if to ward off the dreadful vision. Without another word, Grodman applied his shoulder to the door, and made a violent muscular effort. He had been an athlete in his time, and the sap was yet in him.
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