School Stories - P. G. Wodehouse (best e book reader TXT) 📗

Berkeley’s exit speech.

Daubeny, when examined, exhibited the same suspicious emotion that Berkeley had shown; and Hanson, Simms, and Green behaved in a precisely similar manner.

“This,” said Scott, “somewhat complicates the case. We must have further clues. You’d better pop off now, Pillingshot. I’ve got a Latin Prose to do. Bring me reports of your progress daily, and don’t overlook the importance of trifles. Why, in ‘Silver Blaze’ it was a burnt match that first put Holmes on the scent.”

Entering the junior day-room with some apprehension, the sleuthhound found an excited gathering of suspects waiting to interview him.

One sentiment animated the meeting. Each of the five wanted to know what Pillingshot meant by it.

“What’s the row?” queried interested spectators, rallying round.

“That cad Pillingshot’s been accusing us of bagging Evans’ quid.”

“What’s Scott got to do with it?” inquired one of the spectators.

Pillingshot explained his position.

“All the same,” said Daubeny, “you needn’t have dragged us into it.”

“I couldn’t help it. He made me.”

“Awful ass, Scott,” admitted Green.

Pillingshot welcomed this sign that the focus of popular indignation was being shifted.

“Shoving himself into other people’s business,” grumbled Pillingshot.

“Trying to be funny,” Berkeley summed up.

“Rotten at cricket, too.”

“Can’t play a yorker for nuts.”

“See him drop that sitter on Saturday?”

So that was all right. As far as the junior day-room was concerned, Pillingshot felt himself vindicated.

But his employer was less easily satisfied. Pillingshot had hoped that by the next day he would have forgotten the subject. But, when he went into the study to get tea ready, up it came again.

“Any clues yet, Pillingshot?”

Pillingshot had to admit that there were none.

“Hullo, this won’t do. You must bustle about. You must get your nose to the trail. Have you cross-examined Trent yet? No? Well, there you are, then. Nip off and do it now.”

“But, I say, Scott! He’s a prefect!”

“In the dictionary of crime,” said Scott sententiously, “there is no such word as prefect. All are alike. Go and take down Trent’s statement.”

To tax a prefect with having stolen a sovereign was a task at which Pillingshot’s imagination boggled. He went to Trent’s study in a sort of dream.

A hoarse roar answered his feeble tap. There was no doubt about Trent being in. Inspection revealed the fact that the prefect was working and evidently ill-attuned to conversation. He wore a haggard look and his eye, as it caught that of the collector of statements, was dangerous.

“Well?” said Trent, scowling murderously.

Pillingshot’s legs felt perfectly boneless.

“Well?” said Trent.

Pillingshot yammered.

“Well?”

The roar shook the window, and Pillingshot’s presence of mind deserted him altogether.

“Have you bagged a sovereign?” he asked.

There was an awful silence, during which the detective, his limbs suddenly becoming active again, banged the door, and shot off down the passage.

He re-entered Scott’s study at the double.

“Well?” said Scott. “What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Get out your notebook, and put down, under the heading ‘Trent’: ‘Suspicious silence.’ A very bad lot, Trent. Keep him under constant espionage. It’s a clue. Work on it.”

Pillingshot made a note of the silence, but later on, when he and the prefect met in the dormitory, felt inclined to erase it. For silence was the last epithet one would have applied to Trent on that occasion. As he crawled painfully into bed Pillingshot became more than ever convinced that the path of the amateur detective was a thorny one.

This conviction deepened next day.

Scott’s help was possibly well meant, but it was certainly inconvenient. His theories were of the brilliant, dashing order, and Pillingshot could never be certain who and in what rank of life the next suspect would be. He spent that afternoon shadowing the Greaser (the combination of boot-boy and butler who did the odd jobs about the school house), and in the evening seemed likely to be about to move in the very highest circles. This was when Scott remarked in a dreamy voice, “You know, I’m told the old man has been spending a good lot of money lately.⁠ ⁠…”

To which the burden of Pillingshot’s reply was that he would do anything in reason, but he was blowed if he was going to cross-examine the headmaster.

“It seems to me,” said Scott sadly, “that you don’t want to find that sovereign. Don’t you like Evans, or what is it?”

It was on the following morning, after breakfast, that the close observer might have noticed a change in the detective’s demeanour. He no longer looked as if he were weighed down by a secret sorrow. His manner was even jaunty.

Scott noticed it.

“What’s up?” he inquired. “Got a clue?”

Pillingshot nodded.

“What is it? Let’s have a look.”

“Sh⁠—h⁠—h!” said Pillingshot mysteriously.

Scott’s interest was aroused. When his fag was making tea in the afternoon, he questioned him again.

“Out with it,” he said. “What’s the point of all this silent mystery business?”

“Sherlock Holmes never gave anything away.”

“Out with it.”

“Walls have ears,” said Pillingshot.

“So have you,” replied Scott crisply, “and I’ll smite them in half a second.”

Pillingshot sighed resignedly, and produced an envelope. From this he poured some dried mud.

“Here, steady on with my tablecloth,” said Scott. “What’s this?”

“Mud.”

“What about it?”

“Where do you think it came from?”

“How should I know? Road, I suppose.”

Pillingshot smiled faintly.

“Eighteen different kinds of mud about here,” he said patronisingly. “This is flowerbed mud from the house front-garden.”

“Well? What about it?”

“Sh⁠—h⁠—h!” said Pillingshot, and glided out of the room.

“Well?” asked Scott next day. “Clues pouring in all right?”

“Rather.”

“What? Got another?”

Pillingshot walked silently to the door and flung it open. He looked up and down the passage. Then he closed the door and returned to the table, where he took from his waistcoat-pocket a used match.

Scott turned it over inquiringly.

“What’s the idea of this?”

“A clue,” said Pillingshot. “See anything queer about it? See that rummy brown stain on it?”

“Yes.”

“Blood!” snorted Pillingshot.

“What’s the good of blood? There’s been no murder.”

Pillingshot looked serious.

“I never thought of that.”

“You must think of everything. The worst mistake a detective can make is to get switched off on to another track while he’s working on a case. This match is a clue to something else. You can’t