Two days later, at ten o'clock in the morning, an awning was lowered over the red tiles and marble balustrade of the terrace outside Colonel Duroc's house on the Old Mountain.

It protected those on the terrace from a white, burning sun, unusual so early in the year. The only occupant, at the moment, was Colonel Duroc in uniform, but without a cap, pacing backwards and forwards with short, fussy steps.

It is regrettable that the Colonel, a genuinely good-hearted man, should so often have had to appear in this chronicle in a state of gibbering rage. But facts cannot be helped; and, after all, he had been dealing with H.M. On his head each short white hair seemed to quiver like some wire connected with the electric chair. Though his face was not quite purple, it was near enough.

Stopping his pacing, he swung again towards the front door and for the third time yelled for the fat'ma, whose padded slippers brought her forth again.

"This viper—!" roared the Colonel. Then, with much dignity, he clamped himself hard. You must not speak thus before servants, especially Arab servants. "Is Sir Henry Merrivale not even awake yet?"

The fat'ma gave him a reproachful look.

"The goodman," she corrected, "still snores in healthy slumber."

Colonel Duroc put his hands over his eyes.

"Now harken unto me," he continued in Arabic, "for this time I swear it by Allah. If this goodman is not present, here on this balcony, within ten minutes of the clock, I will strangle you with my own hands."

The Colonel glanced round. Against the back wall now stood a long swing, of green-and-white striped padding, hung on a steel framework and with a small awning of its own. Up to it was pressed the round wicker table.

"He may have his breakfast there," added the Colonel. "Should we have in the house any large quantities of arsenic, or other poison sufficiently painful, you will pour it liberally over his food."

Though the fat'ma gave him another injured glance as she moved, it is a fact that within at least ten minutes the viper in question stood on the balcony. Sir Henry Merrivale, freshly shaven, had a look of pure serenity on his face. He still wore carpet slippers, pyjamas and dressing gown, the latter two being of such hideous intertwined colours that Duroc could not decide which was worse.

"Morning, Colonel," said H.M. serenely. He inflated his chest and hammered his fist on it.

Colonel Duroc deliberately turned his back and folded his arms.

The fat'ma rolled out the tea wagon, piled with a breakfast of two hard-boiled eggs, huge slices of ham together with those red sausages which seem to come from heaven rather than Italy, well-buttered toast, a large silver coffee pot with milk jug and all the accessories.

Indicating that H.M. was to sit down on the swing, which he did, his collation was placed on the table piece by piece over a smooth linen cloth.

"Thank'ee, ma'am," said H.M. "This is downright handsome, this is."

The fat'ma, showing all her gold fillings in a smile, reverently bowed backwards out of his presence. With immense satisfaction H.M. picked up the coffee pot in one hand, the milk jug in the other, and poured both. Then, after a long pull at the coffee, he set down the cup.

"Nice weather we're havin*," he volunteered.

The Colonel, back towards him, did not comment.

"I say, Colonel," observed H.M., mildly bothered, "somehow I sense a distinctly chilly feeling in the atmosphere. What have I done?"

Duroc, completely staggered, spun round and let go in English.

"What have you done?" he demanded, as though this question had been put to him by ancient Latouche or more modern Jack the Ripper. "Uh-huh. That's right."

"Villain! Serpent! Traitor!" began Duroc, in the best Chamber-of-Deputies style. But again he recovered himself for a statement of dignity. "All well, I tell you. This Bill Bentley, this Iron Chest —and also his poor innocent wife, who will regret this to the bitterest of her dying day—you have arranged for them to escape to a country in East Africa from which there is no extradition by any country. And this so-innocent-looking Bentley is an impostor and a thief and a murderer!"

H.M. took up a knife and neatly decapitated the top of a hard-boiled egg.

"Well . . . now," he said. "Tell me, Colonel: just how many murders has Bentley committed?"

There was a silence.

The Colonel opened his mouth, but shut it again. He glanced over towards one of the wicker chairs, on which were piled high his thick dossiers.

"Can you think of one, son?" asked H.M.

But Duroc shot out his forefinger.

"Actually, no! The policeman in Brussels, understood, did not die. He is not even insane, since he has only that small loss of memory about the shooting. But what of intention, old hound fox? He fires almost straight into Emit Leurant's forehead, eh?" jeered the Colonel. "That is good, eh? And why does he do it?"

"Because," replied H.M., "for the first and only time in his life — in Brussels on May 5, last year in *49 —he completely lost his head. You know why. But it nearly sent Bentley out of his mind. He's been brooding about it ever since."

"He regrets this, eh? Pah! I present you with the nuts!"

"Stop a bit," muttered H.M., groping in the pockets of his dressing gown. "I forgot to show you that cablegram, the latest news from Brussels . . ."

"What cablegram?" demanded the Colonel.

"Well, it was from the Brussels police. Since three weeks after that shootin' of the policeman, Emil Leurant has been receiving a pension. It's paid monthly, through so many banks that the police can't or don't want to trace it . . ."

"What is this?"

"I'm tellin' you. The pension to that policeman is the same as the salary of the Commissioner of Police at Brussels. If you don't believe me, I can show you the cable,"

Colonel Duroc twitched a handkerchief out of his sleeve, mopped his forehead, and replaced the handkerchief.

"But now I have you, old farceur!" he snapped. "There was a big woman in Madrid. She had tried to rush at him, and Bentley or Iron Chest has deliberately shoot against her hip . . ."

"Not according to her own testimony, he didn't," said H.M. "Lord love a duck! I forgot to show you — "

"Not another cable? No, no, no!"

"But it is. Madrid police. Upstairs in my inside coat pocket. The woman herself says she swung her big hip the wrong way when she should have swung in the proper way. And Bentley, an A-l crack shot who was trying to miss her as he always did, couldn't help her swinging straight into the bullet when it was too late."

Colonel Duroc looked dazed.

"It seem to me," he cried, "that you would defend this man as well as help him. All well; he is not a murderer. But you cannot deny he is a burglar and a mean thief!"

H.M. considered for a moment, his breakfast forgotten.

"Y'know, Colonel, you can deduce well enough on hard facts. But you can't see motives, or understand plain, ordinary, human beings."

"Then 1 pray explain me!"

"Bill Bentley," H.M. went on thoughtfully, "was the only real sportsman of a criminal, if you can call him a criminal at all, . . ."

"Quoi!"

"... I ever met in my life. That's why he and Alvarez got on so well. If you'd seen his face, when Alvarez called him 'sportsman' just before the fight with Collier . . . Never mind, you weren't there. But let's see, now—whom did Bentley rob?"

"Who he rob?"

"You yourself told me," continued H.M., "he never once cracked a private house. In other words, he never took a penny from anyone who could even remotely be affected by losin' it. What did he crack? Only big firms of jewellers and rich small banks, which —d'ye see?— were bound to be heavily protected by insurance. Ever think of that?"

"But, whoever shall lose, it is against the law!"

"Oh, absolutely," agreed H.M., leaning lazily back in the swing. Again that expression of serenity stole across his face. "It's against the law. It's shockin'. Big companies oughtn't ever to be nicked like that, ought they? And yet somehow, me being an old sinner, it fails to curdle my blood. It's too much like doin' down the bookies or the income tax. All three of ‘em fair game."

There was a silence, while H.M.'s voice seemed to thicken.

"And now," he said, "would you like to hear the real, personal, human-being reason why I wanted Bentley to escape?"

"Yes," snapped the Colonel, his face empurpling again. "If you can."

Whereupon, deplorable to relate, H.M.'s temper blew to pieces with a bang. He surged up, amid a heavy rattle of dishes.

"It was because I like both of'em," he roared. "That's all; that's enough. Especially I liked that little gal Paula. You talk about 'regrets' and 'dyin' days.' Cor! Before I'd let 'em break that gal's heart by arresting her husband, I'd have upset the government of hell and kicked Satan off the smoky throne! Don't come any moralist nonsense over me; it won't go down. Don't try any blatter about 'law' or 'justice'; we both know they don't exist, unless we go out and get 'em for ourselves. Now stick that where you like, but don't forget it!"

Colonel Duroc moistened dry lips. Several changes of colour had come over his face during H.M.'s outburst.

"You would break any law," he muttered, very slowly, "for the sake of friendship . . ."

His voice trailed away. He turned his back and walked to the balustrade, where he looked down over the ridges of Thngier. Beside him on the balustrade stood a marble urn frothing over more heavily with darkening purple blossom. Colonel Duroc tore off an edge of blossom and fretted it. He glanced sideways at the marble nymph.H.M., whose temper had subsided and who looked a bit sheepish, spoke just the same,

"You'd have done the same thing, Colonel," he said quietly, "if you'd known the characters of the people. What's more, from what I guess of your life, you've done it yourself more than once."

"Pah!" said the Colonel without turning round. But he did not deny the statement.

Meantime, H.M. rediscovered his breakfast. Ham, toast, sausages were wolfed down as well as the smallest scraping of egg. He was sitting back drinking coffee before the Colonel spoke again. Duroc seemed to address an oration to the ridges of Tangier.

"I should have been warned," he declared passionately. "Do not I know already this man's record in America? By burn, it is 'o/r-ib!c! He steal evidence from the police. Into clink he has thrown the Mayor of Riddleburg, And New York! They chase him up Lexington Avenue in his night shirt, with police shooting at him with pistols. He blackmail Commissioner Finnegan . . "

"Oh, son, I was only gettin' justice."

The Colonel sighed, whipped round on his heel, and marched back to H.M.

"My friend," he said in a new and different voice, "in my official position I cannot approve your lunatic notion of law. But never think I do not understand."

And he thrust out his hand. H.M. shook it heartily; then, as at their first meeting on this balcony, they were both strongly embarrassed. The usual way out was not available. Unless they were a couple of topers, they could not shout for a bottle of whisky at breakfast time. But it was the Colonel who found inspiration.

"Listen" he urged. "I am acquainted with all the facts, yes. But, if I do not see the people, I do not understand at all. Will you begin at the beginning, and tell me the whole story again; also how you pluck out clues where I see no clues?"

"I second that motion," exclaimed Maureen Holmes, hurrying on to the terrace.

Maureen, her dark-green frock a contrast to her green eyes, looked happy and healthy, yet, with her romantic mind, unhappy too.

"I know some things," she said. "I know Paula and Bill had to go away." She swallowed. "But how did Iron Chest vanish out of a street in Brussels? How did Iron Chest make diamonds and the chest disappear, when I was there? . . . It's over an hour before I can see Juan."

Maureen sat down. Colonel Duroc drew up a chair.

"Proceed," said the Colonel.

"All right," agreed H.M, inhaling smoke complacently. "I'll begin at the very start, when I arrive in the plane with this stubborn, insultin' wench here—shut up—and neither of us had ever heard of Iron Chest. The Colonel was bein' as crafty as Machiavelli and Tom Sawyer put together. While he was putting up a welcome for me as the mighty boozer and wencher, which the same I am not—shut up— he was luring me out to this house so that he could apply soft words and get me into this mess. Alvarez himself had to act like the Mystery Man from Indianapolis.

"Well, Paula Bentley was there, to represent her husband from the British Consulate. In all innocence she made a remark. I'll tell you what it was." H.M.'s prodigious memory could reach back and grip the smallest detail. "She said, They're always sending poor Bill to some dreadful place all over the world to write a report about mud or bananas or machinery or something.' And, 'Of course Bill returned only three days ago.'

"Now two facts —that her husband was doin' a lot of travelling, and that Lisbon is an airport centre for Western Europe—didn't register in my onion at all. Why should they?

"Or another point, after, hem, my noble welcome at the airport. Paula ran off and phoned her husband I was here. I know now —from what she told me herself-she told him she could easily tell where we were going; to this house. Remember, she told Alvarez out loud when he was cavortin' that car on one wheel; Paula said she'd tell us where we were goin', if Alvarez didn't; and she said she knew it all the time when we got here. But again, why should it make me wonder?

"As a result, here we landed and you know the rest, outwardly. Even the Old Man's mild temper was goaded by the barefaced, low-minded insults of a person whom I'm not goin' to name, except that she'll look terrible if she doesn't powder the left side of her nose. . . Maureen groaned,

"Oh, please," she begged. "I knew you could solve the mystery. You've done it. But you were so overbearing, so insufferable . .

"Me?"

“.. That I had to challenge you. I —I'm awfully sorry. I know your outward attitude towards women is all a fake," said Maureen sweetly, lifting her chin and looking him in the eyes, "and I'm not afraid of you. Except sometimes, maybe," she added hastily. "But"—her gaze drifted away again —"if anybody had taken your bet about Iron Chest, you'd have lost it. You didn't nail him in forty-eight hours. No, waitl Please, I apologize."

"Cease and desist this argument," snapped Colonel Duroc. "Enough, now, continue!"

"Honestly sorry," said Maureen, looking down. "I rather love the old son of a—gun."

"Hem!" said H.M., gratified and emitting poisonous smoke, "Now listen carefully, because we're coming to the one key that unlocks nearly every mystery in the case.

"On this balcony, with the wench taking notes, the Colonel begins to tell me about—so he says—a vicious, mean-minded murderer. Oh, my eye! Even before he described that business at Brussels, there were flames crawlin' up my collar at the general information. What struck me most was this: on every one of his burglaries, this unknown man had carried a chest made of iron, one foot deep and wide by two feet long, weighing forty pounds or maybe more. . . , Cor!

'That sent me into a minor fit, as maybe you both noticed. Questions and answers went buzzin' through my head so fast after I told this wench to write it down, that I stumbled on the real answer almost before I realized it. Why did he do that?

"Stop a bit —what had I already heard? Out of a number of burglaries not a soul could give any description of this feller. Nor a soul could describe his face, his clothes, anything, even though some of 'em, many, as I later learned must have got close to him. Why couldn't they describe him?

"Got it! Or maybe. Because that big, glimmerin' iron chest, with a frieze of monkeys' heads, would rivet everybody's eyes. It would hypnotize 'em away from noticing anything else. They wouldn't be looking for a man, but an iron chest. It would be the best possible misdirection. It would be the best possible disguise, except that . . .

"No. Won't do. Unless the feller really is scatty, he won't lug about a weight like that just as a disguise. It'd be simpler to stick a mask on his face. No, no! That's out too, unless . . ."

H.M.'s big voice trailed away. He let a cloud of smoke drift up.

"That was the point, if you remember, where I said, i want more information. Though it's just possible that. . .'

"I didn't finish. Because the real, honest-Injun explanation dropped on my cokernut like a horseshoe.

"Suppose the iron chest wasn't really made of iron? Suppose it was made of heavy cardboard on a slim wooden frame? Suppose it could be folded together flat, like a lot of boxes? Suppose it had been painted, by a first-class still-life artist, to look exactly like iron under a dull light?"

Again there was a pause. H.M.'s head stuck out like an ogre's from under the swing awning, and his voice was like the ogre's.

"Why, then," he leered, "it would serve a double purpose, It would fix attention on the chest, not the man, especially if he carried it as though it were very heavy; you've seen the same thing done in comedy. Second, purpose? If he ever got into a tight corner, it could immediately be folded flat—one foot wide, two feet long, with a hook—and be hidden inside the back of a loose topcoat."

Colonel Duroc smiled sourly.

"Well," said H.M. in his normal voice, "that was the idea that bumped me. I told you to go on, Colonel, but it was rustlin' and buzzin' round in what you might call a bothered way while you told me about the jewel robbery and shooting and vanishing trick in Brussels."

"Wait," protested Maureen. "This won't do."

"Ho?"The policeman who was shot and recovered from it . . . He touched the chest; in fact, he gripped it on each side with his arms over and under! He can testify it must have been made of iron."

"Oh, no, he can't," said H.M. "Lord love a duck, but that was the very thing that stumped and sugared me while the Colonel here was telling the story. Until I suddenly remembered—" Here he looked sternly at Maureen. "Got that notebook of yours?"

"I —I'm afraid I lost it," she answered, lowering her defences. "So much has been happening — "

"We-el, never mind. I'll try to quote from memory, my wench."

"Are you being nice to me again?" Maureen asked quickly and hopefully.

"Curse it, I've never been anything else. But will you lemme get at this?

"All right," continued H.M. "The Colonel here told me just what you've said: that this copper, Emil Leurant, remembered getting a good grip on the chest and then seeing the burglar's face before the shot was fired. But, says Leurant, he can't remember anything about the face.

"Right! That seemed to stymie everything, including the vanishing. But, not ten seconds afterwards, the Colonel said: 'Thus the policeman, Emil Leurant, is fairly clear up to the time he saw the iron chest; and at once the man fired.' Whoa! Oi! That's a clear contradiction. Will you explain, Colonel?"

Colonel Duroc inclined his head.

"You see, Mademoiselle Maureen," he said, "Emil Leurant honestly believes to this day he touched iron. But he did not. He thinks so because he has seen the chest, and heard so much about it, The contradiction, which myself I do not perceive until this old pirate pointed it out, is that these things do not happen in what you call slow motion, Leurant dives for the chest; Bentley fires. Zip! At once! Like that! And Leurant cannot really remember touching the chest or seeing the man's face."

"And so, towards the end of the story," continued Sir Henry Merrivale, "my cokernut was hit again. Two apparent contradictions made one real truth. The 'iron' chest really was painted cardboard on a wooden frame, ready to be folded up. D'ye have a clear picture of what happened in that quiet, dim-lit little street, with the trees on each side?

"Bentley is in mid-career as Iron Chest. He steps out of the jeweller's. The copper leaps and for the first time somebody touches that chest. That's why Bentley goes completely loony and fires. Then he's in even worse a trap. People will come running from a street of lighted cafés nearby.

"What he did would take much less than the few seconds he needed. His diamond loot's in his pocket. He steps into the heavy shadow under a tree, he flattens out that cardboard chest with its hook at the narrow end, he whips off his jacket

"No," H.M. corrected himself. "I had to stop there. The ordinary suit coat fits too closely to hide the bulk of that cardboard, if it's slung from the collar down the back. Iron Chest has to be wearing a loose coat of some kind. And yet everybody swears it's a very warm night; it couldn't be an overcoat or a topcoat. The only thing left would be one of those long Continental raincoats. So," said H.M. simply, "I asked the Colonel whether there'd been any rain that night. He said there had, but for some reason you both seemed to think I was ready for the loony bin myself."

'True, true," said the scowling Colonel. "And just before that, you might remind Miss Holmes . . ."

"Haah," agreed H.M., again leering at Maureen. "Just before that, speaking of Iron Chest, the Colonel had said, 'All, of course, have read about him in the newspapers.' I told you to write that down, because it was very important. You glared at me; just glared."

"I didn't glare! I didn't! I only thou-"

"Never mind," said H.M. with hurt dignity. "But it was important. Because, as I keep stressing, the iron chest was the whole point. When those people poured across from both sides into the street, they were like the policeman — they looked for an iron chest. Whoever carried the chest, they reasoned accordin' to their lights, must be the criminal, because he couldn't get rid of it. He was stuck with that weight. He couldn't chuck it over a fence, or hide it, or do anything with it. But all Bentley did, as I told you, was step behind a tree and in a matter of seconds hide a piece of cardboard. They saw him, all right; he mixed and mingled with 'em; but his hands were empty and nobody noticed him.

"And that's the very simple secret of every apparent 'vanishing' in the whole business. Have you got it now, my wench?"

Maureen nodded. "Yes, but how . . ."

"Be quiet and you'll hear. Immediately afterwards, when the Colonel began to tell me about that affair in Paris, we heard a very old car come bumping and rattling up the road. That car conked out for good in the garage. But in it was a tall young feller, with wide shoulders, wearing a conical straw hat and exactly the sort of grey raincoat I'd been thinkin' about. Cor, didn't my eyes begin to bulge!"

"I told poor Juan," interrupted Maureen, "about that very raincoat, the following afternoon."

"And," grunted H.M., "the little gal herself-PauIa, I mean— burbled about how ridiculous that raincoat was when she was cryin' on my shoulder after the Bentley-Collier fight. But never mind that. . . . We're speakin' of Bentley's arrival here in the dead car.

"The little gal had already gone. But I insisted, remember, that this Bentley should sit down and hear the readin' of all the evidence against Iron Chest. Occasionally I'd chuck a casual question at him, mostly about himself or his background. Neither of you two can remember, because he never troubled to conceal anything. But I'll bet he's more than once talked about his background with his wife.

"His old man had started him in life as an electrical engineer, because Bill thought that meant nothing but tinkerin' with gadgets. He loved tinkering with gadgets, such as that car. An electric safe drill would have been nuts to him . . ."

"Quoi?" demanded Colonel Duroc, galvanized.

'That's the slang English," said H.M. "It means he'd have loved it and liked to use it. Now stop interrupting me! But Bentley found electrical engineering was more than he thought. So he dropped it and took up painting. Though he couldn't paint figures for nuts . . . easy, Colonel ... he was first-class at still life. He could have made and painted that 'iron' chest as easy as winking. Finally, he'd done a great deal of travelling, and his base must have been Lisbon."

Colonel Duroc rose to his feet, bowed formally, and sat down again.

"You note, Miss Holmes," he said, "that this old coquin has not solve your mystery within forty-eight hours. He has solve it within forty-eight minutes."

"No, no, no!" protested H.M., who was so serious that he did not even bask in a compliment. "That was only a mild indication. Listen. . . .

"While we sat here on this balcony with Bentley, I kept watchin' him. He was good-natured and easygoing; no sham about that. But also his brain could move like lightening while he seemed to be slow-moving. In the boxing match he showed both his brain and his body could move together so fast it blurred your eyesight. But never mind that, now,

"At the same time he was sittin' here, you, Colonel, were pouring out the whole story of Iron Chest's career. Originally I swallowed your version of him as a vicious-minded murderer, who'd bash even if he didn't manage to kill.

"But what did the Colonel tell me? In twelve spectacular burglaries, Iron Chest has been seen in public, and people have rushed straight for him, at least nine times. Nine times! Furthermore, he's fired from one to a number of shots at 'em.

"That, of course, was to keep anybody from touching the imitation chest. But a fusillade like that! You'd think that the rottenest shot, who was mean-souled and vicious, must have got at least half of 'em at close range through the head or body. Burn me, anybody must have! And yet not one of 'em is touched, even by bullets that come close, except a fat Spanish gal who swung her hip the wrong way by accident and the Brussels policeman. D'ye see? That's where—as I said later—I revised my estimate of matters. This rain of bullets that miss is too much. Iron Chest is really a top-notch crack shot, so afraid of even wounding anybody that he fires a deliberate near-miss even when he's in danger. And, I learned later that same evening, Bill Bentley was the best pistol shot in Tangier,

"It was on that same night, too," H.M. went oh earnestly, "that the first actual evidence began to show. Bentley and Collier were partners. Bentley allowed Collier, though Bentley was worried about it, to try that first burglary at Bernstein's. But . .”

"Please," exclaimed Maureen, "I must ask a question or burst!"

When the ogre looked at her, Maureen used all her considerable femininity when she returned the look; and the ogre was as wax.

"I can understand," said Maureen, again imitating Paula by leaning back and crossing her knees, "how Bill could have prowled all over Western Europe—Amsterdam, Brussels, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Lisbon —but no farther, because he hadn’t time and he had a real consular mission somewhere else. He could leave here with his own passport. He had to, because everybody knew him . . ,"

"That's not bad, my wench!" said H.M., watching her shining eyes as her mind groped. "But, when he got to Lisbon, what would he do?"

"He'd pick up his burglar's kit and cardboard iron chest," Maureen rushed on rapidly, her eyes fixed and wide, "at . . . at Lisbon, of course! He'd hide them there each time, because he had to start from Lisbon wherever he went. And he'd start from Lisbon . . . yes, with a fake passport." Her face and inspiration fell, "But where would he get a fake passport?"

"From good old Ali," said H.M., regarding her like a schoolmaster with a favourite pupil. "You weren't there, but the Colonel was, when I said the first question I asked Ali in my interview was whether he could get me a fake passport. That was so simple . . . Cor!

"No," H.M. hastened to add, "Bentley never did meet Ali, or any of the gang. Bentley did it through Collier. He sent a photograph with a fine wig and a toothbrush moustache. 'Course, Bentley's fake passport would be English, his profession written in as . . ."

Maureen stretched out both hands to him.

"Locksmith!" she cried. "Just as Collier did once. Then Iron Chest could go through the customs anywhere, explain all his burgling kit and even the drill, and point to 'locksmith' on his passport. The iron chest, which seemed to be the biggest problem, was really the easiest. He could wrap up the chest, flattened, in a brown-paper parcel, and stick it at the back of the trunk. Even if a customs inspector wanted it opened, he could have tacked a painting of his own over the frame. It was easy!"

Up to this point H.M., the schoolmaster, had listened complacently while Maureen's imagination confirmed things that Bill Bentley had told him before Bill and Paula departed hastily in the special plane. Now an evil look showed on H.M.'s face as he remembered, Maureen's guesses were partly from real evidence, but partly from information received. He was the one for analysis and deduction. He was the old man.

"Hoy," he said sternly.

"I was only thinking . . . yes, Sir Henry?"

"You said you wanted to ask a question. All you've done is gone on gibberin' like Cassandra. What's your question? Then I'm tellin' this story."

"I'm afraid it will have to be two questions now."

"Then fire away! Let's hear 'em."

"It's true, isn't it, that Bill Bentley left all his Iron Chest gear—disguise, passport, burglar's kit, imitation chest, and so on—in Lisbon somewhere? He never brought them to Tangier?"

"That's right. He was too well known here; it was too dangerous. Suppose somebody spotted 'em at the British Consulate? Or in his hotel room; his wife, for instance? No, he never brought anything here."

"Then," blurted Maureen, her face white with concentration, "Collier must have carried at least the burglar's kit and the imitation chest through the customs here. But it wasn't an ordinary customs inspection. Colonel Duroc, the whole French customs force and Tangier police. They didn't merely inspect. They measured and weighed and opened and tore things to pieces. That's my question. How, how could Collier bring those things through the customs without being caught?"

"Collier didn't bring 'em," replied H.M. woodenly.

"But someone must have brought them. . . . Who did?"

"I did," answered H.M.

"What?"

"Oh, my wench!" said H.M. dismally "It's the only possible solution. Swing your mind back again to the afternoon we arrived. We were both given diplomatic immunity from having our luggage searched. Don't you remember how they whisked out two trunks and hand luggage, and piled it into a little luggage van that followed us down here? That van was driven by the looniest of all loony chauffeurs in Tangier; and it gave me a blood pressure that might make me die even yet." H.M. brooded darkly. "Whoopin' out in a field," he added, "and then chargin' back to nearly smack the stern off our car. Cor!"

"You mean this man Collier put the stuff in your trunk before the Lisbon plane left for Tangier?"

"Uh-huh."

"But wouldn't that have been dangerous?"

"No, not much. You can deduce what happened from the facts. Remember, Bentley had returned to Tangier only a few days. Collier was still in Lisbon. On March 31, one day before our plane left, Colonel Duroc set off a whole blast of skyrockets from every newspaper here. They shouted that the One and Only Bacchus, the Lead-Kindly-Light of All Wenchers, would arrive next day by the nine-thirty plane; and that this Wonder Boy would be given an official reception.

"What follows? Bill Bentley, who was in the Consular, knew perfectly smacking well what an official reception meant. Among other things, it meant that the visitin'' Stuffed Owl and anybody with him would be allowed immunity from luggage search.

"Then what would Bentley naturally do? He'd phone Collier in Lisbon, and tell him to put the dibs inside my trunk. Collier must have howled with joy, because he'd expected it to be harder to smuggle 'em into Tangier.

"After you've weighed in a trunk at a big airport, it's hoicked away. It stands for a while, with a lot of other trunks or luggage, before they shove it on the plane. Each brand of modern trunk, and there aren't so very many brands, has its own key pattern; you can accumulate a whole string of duplicates. Bently and Collier, in their work both had sets of duplicates.

"So Collier, while the trunk was alone with the others. simply walked up and unlocked what was presumably his own trunk. Into it he put the burglar's kit and the imitation chest flattened out. He locked the trunk and walked away. I've done the same thing myself and nobody noticed. Only it did happen to be my own trunk."

Here H.M., fiendish glee in his face, rubbed his hands together.

"So again," he went on, "we come back to our arrival here, and that luggage van tearin' after us. You'd gone for a walk," he looked at Maureen, "but the Colonel and I heard the van come bumpin' into the garage under this balcony. We even heard the servants carrying up the luggage to the bedroom on the floor above.

"Now again I want you to remember the arrival of Bentley, in that roomy raincoat, as he drives up and the car, or so he says, drops dead. I want you to see a piece of smilin' effrontery that was done smack under our eyes, and we didn't see it!"

"Effrontery?" repeated Maureen.

"Yes. Now what was the very first thing Bentley did, after he said his car had died?"

"But he didn't do anything. . . Wait! Well, he only ran upstairs to telephone for a taxi. The phone is upstairs."

"Right. But on that same floor just above, as the Colonel pointed out when we arrived and as I've indicated just now, what else was there?"

"Our bedrooms. With the luggage!" Enlightenment struck Maureen's eyes. "But you can't mean Bill possibly — "

"Oh, yes. He made a genuine phone call for a taxi. But also he had to hurry, in case somebody wanted to unpack. He had the few seconds necessary to go to my bedroom, open the trunk with his own duplicate key, take out the dibs, and lock the trunk again. Whereupon, if it please you, my fatheads, he hung the flattened chest from its hook to the back of his jacket inside the raincoat. The wrapped-up cloth kit of burglar's tools, which isn't so very long or thick after all, also went inside his raincoat, propped up along his side, with his hand supporting it through his side pocket. And in this he casually strolled downstairs.

"But that wasn't all, not by a jugful! Y'see, he couldn’t get into the taxi and drive away in full view of all of us, including the taxi driver. If he did, he'd have to sit down on that cardboard and light wood imitation chest, and he'd smash it to blazes. He had to wait until it was dark enough so that he could unhook it and sling it out sideways in the taxi.

"So for two mortal hours, while the taxi driver went to sleep, he stayed there leaning or lounging against the balustrade with all the stuff in his raincoat, while he talked amiably about the adventures of Iron Chest, or Collier's arrival. Mind you, I already suspected the bloke. But I never dreamed he'd have the colossal, star-gazin' cheek to do that, especially as I didn't think until later about the dibs being in my own trunk. I can still see Bcntley's face, solid and innocent looking, but with the straight sardonic wit at the corners of his eyes.

"When it was gettin' dark enough, he gave us kind of a stumblin' farewell. I'd already suggested taking him in with us, to keep an eye on him. But he got into the taxi with his goods, and sailed away: first to hand the stuff to Collier, then to meet his wife—who, by the way, had said she was supposed to meet him."

"Well done!" Maureen blurted out involuntarily.

"Pah!" snorted Colonel Duroc. "Goose me, no!"

H.M. silenced both with a malignant look.

"Back we come," he said, "to that fatal first night, the night of the burglary at Bernstein's, when I was sure Bentley was our man. By the way, does anybody here know a Turk named Abdul Yussuf?"

Duroc merely grunted. Maureen declared a firm negative.

"Well, you don't have to." H.M, sounded comfortable. "He's only a piece of background; what's important, in its own way, is his evidence. As I say, he's a Turk who always wears an Arab jalebah with full-peaked hood. He's got a licence to keep a garden to drink mint tea on the top of an old tower near the joining of the Mediterranean and the harbour."

"I remember," said Maureen. "Paula told me."

"Yes. She and Bill had gone for a swim. Afterwards they decided —it was still early—to drink mint tea on top of this tower. The old boy in the jalebah, who was drowsin' near the door speaks English better than I do. He thought their conversation was sinister, and reported it to the nearest police station. They wrote it down, but nobody thought it was very sinister. It was only revealing.

"Bill talked a lot about Iron Chest: mainly telling what I've just told you, about what happened to us here, but omitting all reference to his tricks with burgling kits or fake chests. The little gal, Paula, kept insisting he was worried about money.

"And so he was, but not in the way she thought. His motive for playing Iron Chest, though he never admitted being Iron Chest except to me, he never made much of a secret; it was public property; certainly he told it to Paula. It was, simply, to retire—to get away from grinds and settle among books.

"But now he was worried. He had a tidy little fortune in new, cut, salable diamonds which couldn't be recognized, as well as untraceable cash. Did he need that last raid against the Sultan's diamonds? Soon he'd retire. Remember, we saw only the froth on top of his mind. But he'd have to tell Paula soon. If somebody had written down his real thoughts fairly, it might have run something like this: He did not want to tell her the truth as yet, thought there was no reason why he should not have done so. ... He searched his mind for some excuse which, while convincing, should also sound true. He found it, of course, in spoutin' all that hocus-pocus about capturing Iron Chest and gathering the reward, which he never meant. But let's go on to the time when he takes a roundabout way and idles the car past Bernstein's in the rue du Statut.

"Y'know, his arrival on the scene seemed too pat. A little too closely timed. Before the Colonel and I could tumble out that side door together, with the door lamp burning, there was Bentley smack in the middle of things without our knowing how he'd got there.

"He went whizzin' past us for a clean tackle. Of course, Collier had messed up everything by not studying the premises closely enough beforehand — Iron Chest always studied 'em —and Collier needed help. To give him help, Bentley must also establish an alibi for himself.

"Maybe my eye was becomin' too jaundiced. But, of all the rugger tackles I ever saw, that was the rummiest. He had a straight chance for both knees, not even a hand-off to stop him . . ."

"Hand-off?" repeated Maureen.

"In American football, which is a good deal like rugger, you'd call it a stiff arm."

"Oh. But please go on."

"But his left arm goes up for the iron chest. If he really thinks it's iron, that's an impossible move. I think that's where he probably whispers, 'Don't worry, this is Bill; kick your leg free.' Bill himself later realized how fishy his behaviour had looked, and admitted he ought to have tried a clean tackle. But he still tried to defend himself, with this: 'But the damned iron was polished; kind of a film on it, like polished steel; my fingers slipped on it, and down I went.'

"Lord love a duck, that tore it!

"Unless every combination of probabilities had gone wrong, that chest wasn't made of iron. He was lying. Now I had to get real evidence.

"Of course I never had any plan for catching Iron Chest, not a concrete one such as I mentioned in the Parade Bar; I was speaking in front of Bentley, and fishing. And you'll understand how Collier 'disappeared' from the rue Waller. For a time Collier lost his head about that chest, and didn't know what to do with it. The wild stamping and neighing of horses in those stables gave the tip-off. If Collier simply folded up the chest, shoved it under straw along the wall, and then flopped down like a toper, rolled over and played drunk, nobody would notice him —and nobody did - because he didn't have the iron chest and couldn't have concealed it. I might add that both Paula and Bill Bentley had a narrow escape; Collier couldn't shoot for beans.

"And now," H.M. was still revelling, "we come to the next morning. Both you two—as well as Paula and Alvarez—had your dramatic spat with Collier in the crimson-shuttered flat in Marshan. I s'pose," he looked drowsily at Maureen, "you want to know why Collier rented the flat, and then immediately put that rental advertisement in the Tangier Gazette?"

"It was a fake," exclaimed Maureen.

H.M. glared her into silence. "But not the kind you're thinkin', my wench. Wherever he went, Collier rented a flat. For two reasons: as a secret meeting place for political purposes, and a hide-out where he could cut the diamonds undisturbed. He shipped his load of Bibles and other gear ahead of him, and wrote the manager of the flats about painting the blinds, enclosing the money to do it.

"But before he leaves Lisbon, what happens? Bentley calls him about planting the tools, etcetera, in my luggage, and tells him that he, Collier, is to pull the Bernstein deal. That means, in all probability, he won't be in Tangier any time at all — so what does he do? He cables an advertisement to the Tangier Gazette offerin' a sublet. It never entered his head that either Paula or Maureen would be looking for an apartment. Cor! Don't you know he was one surprised blighter when Paula walked in that door!"

"Well, that explains the flat and the crimson blinds," admitted Maureen. "But how on earth did Collier make the chest and those diamonds disappear?"

"Whatever you wish, my wench," agreed H.M. magnanimously. "Let's take Paula's own account, after she'd burst in on Collier at that inhuman hour and been locked out again. Outside, fortunately, she met Alvarez. Now follow it: they stayed there, by the time given for talking, at least two minutes. Paula heard noises inside. She couldn't identify them. But you tell me: was it a cold day?"

"In the morning, bitterly cold."

"Right. By the way, was there a fire burning in the living room of Collier's flat?"

"Yes, of course, a comparatively small grate holding a bright coal fire that. . ." Maureen drew a quick breath, and again her eyes widened.

"Now at least three times," said H.M. fiercely, "to the point of the gorge risin', we've heard a description of uncut diamonds. They're smallish, jagged lumps, coloured grey and rough on the surface.

"That's the whole story. Pour your diamonds into the fire, where they'll be covered with greyish ash or coal dust, and they'll be indistinguishable from pieces of unburnt coal. Finally shove in pieces of cardboard, especially with oil paint on 'em, and they'll burn like oil-soaked paper in less than a minute. As for the diamonds —ask any consultant—they won't be harmed or melt in the fire except one so infernally hot it'd have to be ten times fiercer than this."

"But the cardboard! Wouldn't there be ash?"

"Uh-huh, and there was. Ever talk to Alvarez about that? He tramped all over bits of heavy, flaky ash when they'd raked out the fire. That's why his questions were so difficult to answer literally. You were lookin' straight at the stuff, but you never saw it.

"That applies to the great big blazin' clue about the chest. Alvarez saw it; ask him. Or, rather, he was confused and angry, and he wasn't quite sure himself. On the centre table in that room was a tablecloth of very soft velvet. Remember?"

"Well, something about it."

"Now on that table, and for some time after Paula burst in, had been standing what purported to be a heavy iron chest weighing around forty pounds. But on the soft velvet there wasn't any impression, such as would have been made by a genuine chest. There were no marks even from cardboard and light wood strips. The surface wasn't disturbed at all.

"Of course you see what happened. The tenant of a flat like that is supposed to sweep up the ashes of his own fire, put 'em in a little bin, and stick 'em in a service hatch for the porter to carry down to the cellar.

"Me," said, H.M. swelling up his chest and tapping it, "not being there, I couldn't tell you what precautions to take. But, when afterwards I unburdened myself to the Colonel about iron chests, and he began to smash the furniture, he knew what to do. There was a man still left at the flats, the Greek porter, who was quite innocent."

"It is so," interposed Colonel Duroc. "He himself takes the ashes and the 'unburnt coal,' which is diamonds, down in the cellar to the ashes bin, and dump them there. 1 myself lead a party to trap Iron Chest to come and take them. But he does not. No; Bentley decides to try elsewhere."

H.M. nodded. He took out a cigar, but did not light it.

"And that's nearly all, except for human character—I mean Bill Bentley's—during that rather rough night in the Kasbah, when Collier died.

" 'Course," sneared H.M., lifting one shoulder delicately, "it wasn’t a very rough night. True, some—hem-blighter did polish off a Middle-European sneak thief with a knife in an alley on the way there; but that's got nothing to do with us."

"Ha ha ha," said the Colonel bitterly. "I forget him, yes." His temper foamed. "But this I tell you, Sir Henry. You, who come to detect, are the worst mobster I ever meet. When I find a man's throat slit so, and the way his hair has been seized, I know experience when I see it! Good experience, I say."

"Well. . . now," muttered H.M. deprecatingly. "Maybe I had to do something like that in Marseilles once; or two or three times at Port Said or maybe in Occupied Germany. . ."

"Stop!" cried the Colonel. "In this detective, there is more depravity than any criminal."

"Not in a fair-play deal, son. I hadda risk that rattlesnake's leap before I could grab him by the hair. But, as I was saying, about Bentley. Bentley had got to the point, that night, where he and Collier had got to part brass rags. He was boilin’. Worst of all, Paula had walked instead of Maureen into Collier's parlour. Remember, Collier had seen you and me talkin' together aboard that plane, my wench. He'd seen us go across in official welcome. But he'd seen Paula too, Paula walked into his parlour, and reappeared with the police.

"Bentley was quietly awaiting an opportunity to see Collier face to face, even if Collier betrayed him. Collier had done the one unforgiveable thing. Even though he didn't quite know who Paula was, Collier had threatened to cut Paula's throat; and in Bill's eyes that was like the unforgiveable sin. If any danger threatened that little gal . . ."

Maureen spoke softly without raising her eyes.

"Paula was your darling, too," she stated. "That's mainly why you arranged the getaway. That's really why you called her 'my dolly' and me 'my wench.' "

"Y'know, Colonel," said H.M., "there ought to be a law against women having such long memories about personal trifles."

"I too am married," agreed the Colonel.

"And I'm going to get married," cried Maureen, her pale face flushing and her eyes shining. "To Juan, as soon as he gets out of the nursing home."

Leaping to his feet, Colonel Duroc beamed and chuckled all over the place. He fussed over her like an old hen. Only with difficulty was he restrained from shouting for champagne, and his feeling was bitter as regarded H.M.'s disdainful look.

"You," he said witheringly. "You have no heart."

"I do not know," retorted H.M., with a villainous imitation of the Colonel's accent, "which is worse: the sentimentality American —or the sentimentality Belgian."

The Colonel's face turned several colours.

"For the love of Esau," yelled H.M., "be quiet while I finish.

That night, when Alvarez was going into the Kasbah to take Collier, Bill Bentley was quite willing to go. He tried by every means to stop Paula, but she wouldn't be stopped. Now he had a gun. Collier would have a gun; Collier, who'd streaked back to the Riff Hotel just after he nipped out of the Marshan flat and got back to the Riff Hotel just as the alarm went out, had picked up his Banker's Special as well as other things.

"But watch the time that night, when Bill and Paula and I entered old Ali's house by the front door. We sneaked down the stairs towards the carpet room, and got inside in a line against the wall. Neither of you two happened to be there, but I was and I can vouch for what you've heard.

"If I'd ever had a doubt of Bentley's guilt, that was gone now. Standing on a pile of rugs, with his back to us, you could see only Collier's black hair, and a thick body. Paula has said she wasn't sure it was Collier. All the talk had been about a red-haired man; he hadn't dyed his hair black until early afternoon. I wasn't absolutely sure myself.

"But Bentley knew instantly. He knew, even though he was never supposed to have seen Collier before. Even on the night in the alley beside Bernstein's, Bentley was lying on his back trying to look back and up; I can testify he couldn't see Collier. But I repeat — Bentley knew. He slid that Webley revolver out of his pocket, whispering something to the effect he never thought he could shoot a man in the back.

"And he couldn't, though it would mean the end of someone who might betray him. He literally, physically couldn't shoot a man in the back. Then he realized something and whispered it. Collier had a gun too. If he called out to Collier, and waited for him to turn round so that they'd be level for a fair duel —well, that was a sportin' proposition and a straight one. Cor! I'd like to wring the scrawny neck of the red-robed old mummy of a judge who said it wasn't.

"But we were interrupted.

"Collier heard Alvarez coming from the other direction. It happened so quickly that Bill hadn't even time to get ready. Collier, a bad shot, fired twice at Alvarez and missed. When Alvarez contemptuously walked close, Collier scored with one shot in the chest. . . . I'm sorry, my wench. I don't want to . . ."

"It's all right," said Maureen, lowering her eyes but trembling just the same. "I'm the one who's stupid. He's perfectly all right now. But if I'd been there . . . you see?"

"Anyway, he came round to our side of the carpet pile, when Bentley twisted the gun muzzle in the back of his neck. While I was examining him, Bentley backed Collier to the middle of the carpets. Just then I happened to glance up and back; and I saw Collier as well as Bentley when they faced each other.

"Oh, my fatheads! It was a dead giveaway. Collier's eyes opened wide, as they do when you recognize; then narrowed, and gave Bentley a very meaning look from under the eyelids. Collier said something like, 'What do you think you're doing?' That emphasis on the 'you' made it clear that Bentley was no stranger to Collier. Oh, Collier knew!

"Bentley said, 'You'll find out,' with just as significant a look. It could mean only he was warning Collier to keep quiet, and not give him away; maybe Bentley was here to help him. Whether Collier believed that or not, he was willing to go with it for a while. He honestly believed, at the time, that Ali's men were covering him and he had nothing to fear.

"Then Bentley had a decision to make. Alvarez was badly smashed up. Alvarez, who'd been humiliated three times by a boxer who he knew couldn't even hurt him, was in sick agony. Alvarez would have given his soul to see that Old Pretender smashed. If you don't think Bentley's reason was a sportsman's, I'll stop just here.

"Bentley offered to fight for three reasons, though he wasn't even sure he could beat Collier. He offered it to avenge his friend, because Collier had threatened Paula's life, and finally . . ."

"Yes?" prompted Maureen.

"He despised the Communist tie-up. Collier was a red-hot party member and Bill despised him for it and his phony fetish of crimson blinds.

"Of all the people in this world, you couldn't have found two people farther apart in character than Bentley and Collier. Just say they differ in everything, and you'll have it. Collier hated Bentley almost as much as Bentley hated Collier. When or where they met isn't important. But he had to have a diamond cutter who was crooked. Honest diamond cutters ask questions about where uncut stones come from; and there are very few dishonest ones, 'cause it's just as profitable to be straight.

"For those three reasons. We saw his fine strategy, the risks he took, the way in which he used his head —all Iron Chest's strategy. He was nearly knocked out with a blow to the wind. But he came, and landed that Mary Ann which wrote finis to Collier.

"Collier must have known, when he was being beaten badly, that none of Ali's men could possibly be there; that the police had trapped him and would arrest him. So he'd shout out at the end and denounce Bentley too. Bentley also knew perfectly well, when he threw that final knockout punch, that he himself was done. Once Collier woke up he'd be denounced. So he sat there to take his medicine. All that prevented it was that Collier remained punch-drunk even when he woke up, and all he could think about was gcttin' away. So he died against the red window.

"About Bentley's try against Bernstein's, there's not much to tell. That was two nights ago . . ."

"Yes," interrupted Maureen, "and where were you yesterday? A whole day gone, and even the Colonel couldn't find you?"

"Ha ha ha," said Colonel Duroc. "This old evil-doer does not dare to face me. For one part of the day he is seen smoking keef on a bench by the beach, and they photograph him. For another . . ."

"That's enough!" snapped H.M., with massive dignity. "Do you want me to tell you the very last incident, or not? From the second day I was convinced—because of Bentley's vanity, his one bad trait; I got no vanity—that he was goin' to crack Bernstein's again if it killed him. And he was determined to do it under our very noses. But how? He couldn't tackle the front of that safe; it'd be too well guarded.

"But he might, just might, tackle the back of it. He might scrape away, easily, the wood and plaster at the back of the safe which, remember, is against the wall on that side. He knew that both Bernstein's and Louisa Bonomi's would be closed because it was Sunday. During the day, gettin' a key as I got one, he could use his electric drill to make a hole through the back of the safe, almost through the steel. Then he would return that night and with old-fashioned 'soup,' and enough of it, he would blow an opening if only he had an explosion timed to cover its noise. He couldn't use a building; Bentley's not the killing kind.

"But there was an empty ship in the harbour, a little one, nobody aboard except a bribable second officer. He could be bribed to set a time fuse and go ashore, his fuse timed exactly with the one to the safe. Risky, but possible. I'd been thinking from the first that was the only way to do it; but I was awful surprised when it really happened.

"After it was all over, I made Bentley leave the diamonds because they were uninsured; I made him leave his fingerprints and another dummy chest, because I promised to give you evidence. And that's all except one tiny fact. The woman in Madrid thought he was bald when Bentley was wearin' only his moustache and no wig. A service haircut leaves something on your head, yes, but it makes you look bald with a hat on; and Bentley's army haircut messed up everything."

"I am glad he got away," Maureen said. "Bill never killed anybody, except the knife thrower in the orange tree, Paula told me, in self-defence. He never robbed anybody who couldn't spare it a thousand times over." Maureen's gaze wandered away for a moment and she seemed lost in thought. "There was another man, or perhaps somebody mostly from folklore," she continued dreamily, "who did the same thing. But he's been honoured and loved for nearly eight hundred years. They —they called him Robin Hood."

H.M. regarded her in astonishment. "But what have I been trying to tell you all this time …my dolly?"