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“It’s infamous,” he said, when Fox had stopped as abruptly as he began. “It’s infamous. You — Alleyn. You’ll make a laughing-stock of yourself over this. You’ll lose your job.”

“And that’ll learn me,” said Alleyn. “Come along, Mr. Saint.”

Saint took his hand from his lips and let it fall to the lapel of his coat. He rose ponderously, and half turned aside.

The next second Alleyn had him by the wrist. The thick fingers held a piece of paper.

“Please, Mr. Saint,” said Alleyn. “We can’t have you eating paper, you know.”

The next second they were struggling bitterly. Saint seemed to have gone mad. In a moment the chair was overturned. The two men had crashed across the desk. An inkpot fell to the floor, splashing Saint’s light check trousers. The other men had got hold of him. Alleyn still held his wrist. It was now strained across his back, making the rolls of fat and muscle on his arm and shoulder bulge. He stopped struggling abruptly.

“Pick up that chair,” Alleyn ordered sharply. Nigel, who had hovered impotently on the outskirts of the battle, set the heavy swivel chair on its feet

“Let him down gently. You’ll be all right, Mr. Saint. Open those windows, one of you.”

Saint lay back in the chair. His face was purple and his breathing terribly distressed. Alleyn took off his tie, and unfastened his collar. The pulse in his neck throbbed laboriously. Alleyn loosened his clothes and stood looking at him. Then he turned to the desk telephone and dialled a number.

“Yard? Chief Inspector Alleyn. Get the divisional surgeon to come round to the Unicorn Theatre at once. Heart attack, tell him. Got that? Upstairs. The constable at the door will show him. At once. Thank you.” He put the receiver down.

“You’d better go outside, I think,” said Alleyn. “He wants to be quiet. Fox, will you wait here?”

The three detectives filed out quietly. Fox stood still. Nigel walked over to the darkest corner and sat down, hoping to remain u

“Heart attack?” asked Fox quietly.

“Evidently. He’ll do though, I fancy.” They looked in silence at the empurpled face. Alleyn switched on an electric fan and moved it across the desk. Saint’s thin hair was blown sideways. He opened his eyes. They were terribly bloodshot.

“Don’t try to talk,” said Alleyn. “A doctor will be here in a moment”

He pulled forward another chair, put Saint’s feet on it, and then moved him a little, until he was almost lying flat. He did all this very quickly and efficiently, lifting the huge bulk without apparent effort. Then he moved across to the window. Nigel saw that he held the piece of paper. Alleyn leant out of the window, looked at it, and then put it in his pocket.

The room was very silent. Saint was breathing more easily. Presently he gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes again. Fox walked over to Alleyn, who spoke to him in a low voice. The electric fan made a high, thrumming noise and blandly turned from side to side. Saint’s hair blew out in fine strands, fell, and blew out again, regularly. Nigel stared at Saint’s heavy face, and wondered if it was the face of a murderer.

Before long they heard voices in the passage outside. The door opened and the divisional surgeon came in. He walked over to Saint and bent down to make an examination. He took the pulse, holding up the fat, white wrist and looking placidly at his watch. Then he injected something. Saint’s lips parted and came together again clumsily.

“Better,” he whispered breathlessly.

“I think so,” said the doctor. “We’ll keep you quiet a little longer and then take you away, where you’ll be more comfortable.”

He looked at Alleyn and the others.

“We’ll leave him for a moment, I think,” he said. They went out of the room. Nigel followed, leaving Fox, who shut the door. They walked along the passage a little way.

“Yes, it’s his heart,” said the doctor. “It’s pretty nasty. He’s a sick man. Who’s his doctor?”

“Sir Everard Sim,” said Alleyn.

“Oh, yes. Well, he’d better see him. Is he under arrest?”

“He is.”

“H’m. Nuisance. I’ll get an ambulance and wait for him. Leave me a couple of men. I’ll ring up Sir Everard. Saint’s pretty dickey, but he’ll pull round.”

“Right,” said Alleyn. “You’ll fix up here then, will you? I’ll leave Fox to see to it.”

“Oh,” said the doctor, “while I think of it. There’s a message for you at the Yard. They asked me to tell you. Someone called Albert Hickson is very anxious to see you. It’s about this case. He wouldn’t talk to anyone else.”

“Albert Hickson,” Nigel exclaimed. “Why, that’s Props!”

“Hullo,” said Alleyn, “you’ve come to life, have you? You’ve no business here at all. I must get back to the Yard.”





Nigel retreated, but he managed to slip i

“Bathgate,” he said, “is your news of the arrest out by now?”

“Yes,” Nigel assured him. “I didn’t ring up to stop it — it will be all over London already. Wonderful, isn’t it?” he added modestly.

“All over London already. Yes. That’ll be it,” murmured Alleyn.

Nigel followed him, dog-like, into the Yard. The man who had seen Props was produced.

“Was he carrying a newspaper?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Notice which one?”

The constable had noticed and was eager to say so. Props had carried Nigel’s paper.

“You’re rather wasted at this job,” said Alleyn curtly. “You use your eyes.”

The constable flushed with pleasure, and produced a sheet of paper.

“He left this message, sir, and said that he’d call again.”

“Thank you.”

Nigel, still hopeful, followed Alleyn to his room. At the door Alleyn paused politely.

“May I come in?” he asked. “Or do you wish to be alone?”

Nigel assumed the frank and manly deportment of an eager young American in a crook film. He gazed raptly at Alleyn, wagged his head sideways, and said with emotion:

“Gee, Chief, you’re — you’re a regular guy.”

“Aw, hell, buddy,” snarled Alleyn. “C’m on in.”

Once in his room, he took out a file, opened it, and laid beside it the paper he had taken from Saint, and the one Props had left at the Yard.

“What’s that?” asked Nigel.

“With your passion for the word I think you would call it a dossier. It’s the file of the Unicorn murder.”

“And you’re going to add those fresh documents?” Nigel strolled up to the desk.

“Can you read from there?” asked Alleyn anxiously. “Or shall I put them closer?”

Nigel was silent

“The Saint exhibit is a second letter from Mortlake that lands St. Jacob with a crash at the bottom of his ladder. The note from Props—” Alleyn paused.

“Well?”

“Oh, there you are.”

Nigel read the following message, written in rather babyish characters:

“I know who done it and you got the wrong man. J. Saint never done it you did not ought to of arested an i

“What’s it mean?” asked Nigel. “It means Props will shortly pay a call on the murderer,” said Alleyn.