He went back to find Lomas and the servant looking at Colonel Osbert. Colonel Osbert lay on the floor. There was froth at his lips and on his wrist a spot of blood. Reggie knelt down beside him. . . .
Reggie rose. “Well, you can put it that way,” he said. “It’s the end.”
In Lomas’s room Reggie spread himself on a sofa and watched Lomas drink whisky and soda. “A ghastly business,” Lomas said: he was still pale and unsteady. “That creature is a wild beast.”
“He’ll go where he belongs,” said Reggie, who was eating bread and butter. “All according to plan.”
“Oh, no, no, no. He wanted those papers for his employers. He contracted with Osbert to hand them over when Dean was dead. He murdered Dean and Osbert couldn’t deliver the goods. So I told him through the papers that Osbert had them. He thought Osbert was bilking him and went to have it out with him. Osbert didn’t satisfy him, he was sure he had been done and he made Osbert pay for it. All according to plan.”
Lomas set down his glass. “Fortune,” he said nervously, “Fortune--do you mean--when you put that in the paper--you meant the thing to end like this?”
“Well, what are we here for?” said Reggie. “But you know you’re forgetting the real interest of the case.”
MR. REGINALD FORTUNE lay in a long chair. On his right hand a precipice fell to still black water. On his left the mountains rose into a tiara of snow. Far away in front sunlight found the green flood of a glacier. But Mr. Fortune saw none of these things. He was eating strawberries and cream.
The Hon. Sidney Lomas, Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, disguised as a bloodthirsty fisherman, arrived stiffly but happy, and behind him a large Norwegian bore the corpses of two salmon into the farm-house. “The lord high detective,” Reggie murmured. “An allegorical picture, by the late Mr. Watts.”
“Great days,” Lomas said, and let himself down gingerly into a chair. “Hallo, has there been a post?” He reached for one of the papers at Reggie’s feet. “My country, what of thee?”
“They’re at it again, Lomas. They’ve murdered a real live lord.”
“One Carwell. In the wilds of the Midlands.”
“Young Carwell? He’s a blameless youth to slay. What happened?”
“They found him in his library with his head smashed. Queer case.”