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reflected that he was, after all, a writer of stories involving violent action. A certain duty was laid upon him to investigate the situation. Perhaps Montague might not even be dead.
    Rather warily he approached the peaceful figure on the bed, put a hand near where he conceived the heart to be – but with care not to place this hand near the dark stain on Montague’s pullover – felt for a pulse, lifted the eyelids with some distaste, even took down the bit of looking-glass on the wall and held it to nose and mouth. He felt no heartbeat and no pulse, and there was no shadow on the glass. All that was somehow satisfying. The man on the bed had no say in things any more, would not object to anything said or done, could be treated as a mere wax figure. Not quite wax, though, for he was still slightly warm. That meant he had not been dead very long, but just how long Applegate was not sure. Such problems had not faced the vampire bats and poisoners of Where Dons Delight. Memo, he said to himself, find out how long a body takes to cool. He noted provisionally that Montague must have been murdered, at most, half an hour ago.
    He had been killed with a knife – a short-handled thin-bladed knife which Applegate was careful not to touch. As he looked closely at this knife, however, a frightful suspicion crossed his mind. He hurried back to his own room and felt in his jacket pockets. The suspicion was justified, and the feeling he had had when undressing explained. The knife he had taken from Derek Winterbottom at suppertime was no longer in his possession. That knife, or one exactly similar to it, had been stuck into Montague’s chest.
    Much shaken, he went back to Montague’s room and stood staring down at the dead man. Without trying to think out the implications of the theft of the knife he felt action of some kind to be imperative. He resisted the idea that there might be unpleasant consequences of this action as he put his hand into Montague’s pockets, now with no feeling of revulsion (was not Montague, after all, a wax figure?), and sifted the contents like a miner panning for gold.
    Left-hand trouser pocket empty. Right-hand trouser pocket silver and copper. Hip pocket empty. Jacket pockets, two letters addressed to F Montague, Esq., Flat 277, Mattingley House, Edgware Road, W, a bunch of keys, a nail file. And now the wallet. Still with no feeling of revulsion he eased it out of the jacket. A shabby wallet, but bulky. The inner compartment contained a wad of pound notes, perhaps fifty. What else? Several old bus tickets, a book of stamps, another letter, a scrap of paper with an address on it. HJ, Grand Marine Hotel, Murdstone 18345. Applegate put the three letters and this scrap of paper into his own pocket, wiped with his handkerchief the wallet and everything else he could remember touching, and put them back. He felt perfectly calm, and was surprised to notice that his hands were trembling.
    Back in his own room he looked at the things he had taken. One of the letters in Montague’s pocket was a bill for whisky and gin. The other was from a girl. Applegate hastily skimmed the conventional phrases of love and came to something more interesting. You have been acting so mysterious lately. What do you mean about something good coming up and only being away a few days? Have you got another girl, Frankie, because if you have I would sooner you told me. And sooner it was that than you were doing some job again. You told me you were going straight, Frankie, believe me it is the best policy, didn’t you have enough trouble in the past through Johnny and Henry? There were more conventional phrases. The letter was signed Edna.
    He turned to the third letter, which had been in Montague’s wallet. This proved not to be a letter at all, but a note typed on a piece of copy paper. With a shock he read his own name.
     
    The agent must be Charles Applegate, arriving as new master at Bramley. Has no experience of teaching. Has