“No. I imagine we didn’t get so far.”

“I suppose not. There’s a bag of something. Petty cash, perhaps. What’s this? Cheque from Mr. Ogden. Twenty pounds. Dated last Wednesday.”

“How he gets it out of the gentlemen fairly beats me,” said Fox.

“Extraordinary, isn’t it? But you know, Fox, there is a kind of simple, shrewd business brain that’ll believe any tarra-diddle outside its own province.”

“Would you say Mr. Ogden’s was that sort, sir?” Alleyn flipped the cheque at him.

“Looks like it,” he said, and turned again to the safe. “Hullo! This is more the sort of thing.”

He pulled out a package and laid it on the table. It was a largish brown-paper parcel tied up with red ribbon. It was addressed to “The Reverend Father Jasper Garnette,” and the writing was undoubtedly Cara Quayne’s. Alleyn stared fixedly at the ribbon. He turned the parcel over once or twice.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Nigel.

“Oh, yes. yes.” But he hesitated a little while longer and at last, laying the parcel on the table, slipped the ribbon very gingerly over one end, cautiously pulled out the folds of paper, and peered into the open end. He held the parcel under a lamp, and examined it even more closely. Then he dropped it back on to the table.

“Well?” asked Nigel.

“Well, Bathgate, I wish Mr. Garnette was not so sound asleep.”

“Why on earth?”

“I should like him to have a look at this.” Fox lifted the parcel by the open end and looked in.

“Cripes!” he said.

“Here!” Nigel ejaculated. “Let me look.”

“Don’t pick it up. Look inside.”

Nigel did so. Fox flashed his torch into the parcel. Nigel glanced up at the two policemen, peered again into the parcel, grinned, looked doubtful, and at last said:

“But is that all?”

“I think so, oh yes,” answered Alleyn.

“But,” said Nigel, “it’s — it’s all newspaper.” He thrust a finger in and ferreted round.

“So it is,” agreed Alleyn.

“By gum!” ejaculated Nigel. “The motive!”

“Very like, very like.”

“Garnette has pinched the bonds.”

“Somebody’s pinched them. Ask Bailey to come in and get the prints, if any, will you, Bathgate,?”

Bailey was grubbing about in the vestry. He returned with Nigel, produced his insufflator and got to work on the parcel. Alleyn had sat down at the table and was tackling the rest of the material from the safe. Fox embarked on a meticulous search of the sideboard drawers. Nigel, with a side-long glance at the Chief Detective-Inspector, pulled out his pad, sank into Father Garnette’s most spacious armchair, lit a cigarette, and began to write.

“Copy?” inquired Alleyn mildly.

“And why not?” said Nigel defiantly.

“No reason at all. Let me see it before you send it in.”

“That’s a pretty piece of effrontery, that is,” said Nigel hotly. “Who was here from the start? Who called you in? I consider I displayed remarkable presence of mind. You’ve come in on a hot scent. This is a big story and I’m going to make it so. Eyewitness of a murder. That’s what I was, and they’re going to know it.”

“All right. All right. I merely ask to see your story.”

“Yes, and you’ll blue pencil it out of existence.”

“No, I won’t. Don’t mention the bearer bonds.”

‘There you go, you see!”

“And pray, Bathgate, don’t refer to me as ‘The indefatigable Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.’ ”

“But, Alleyn,” Nigel protested, “that is altogether unfair. I have never made use of such a phrase. You merely speak for your own amusement.”

“What style are you adopting? You have been reading George Moore again I notice.”

“What makes you suppose that?” asked Nigel, turning pink.

“His style has touched your conversation and left it self-conscious.”

“Nonsense.”

“Nevertheless it is an admirable style, though I shall be interested to see how you apply it to journalism and the mechanics of police investigation.”

“That is merely ridiculous,” said Nigel. He returned pointedly to his work and after a moment’s consideration erased a word or two.

“Any prints on the parcel, Bailey?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes, sir. All one brand. The Reverend, I’ll bet. I’ve got a sample of him off that glass.”

“Ah,” said Alleyn.

“Ah-ha,” said Nigel.

“No, not quite ‘Ah-ha’ I fancy,” murmured the inspector.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Fox suddenly.

“What’s up?” asked Alleyn.

“Look here, sir.” Fox came to the table and put down a small slip of paper.

“I found it in the cigarette-box,” he said. “It’s the lady again.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn, “it’s the lady. Bless my soul,” he added, “the damn’ place is choc-a-bloc full of dubious correspondence.”

Nigel came across to look. Fox’s new find was a very small page of shiny paper. Monday’s date was printed in one corner and underneath was scribbled the word: “Sunday.” Three edges were gilt, the fourth was torn across at an angle as though it had been wrenched from a book. Cara Quayne had written in pencil: “Must see you. Terrible discovery. After service tonight.”

“Where exactly was it?” asked Alleyn.

“In this.” Fox displayed an elaborated Benares box almost full of Turkish cigarettes. “It was on the sideboard and the paper lay on top of the cigarettes. Like this.” He picked up the paper and put it in the box.

“This is very curious,” said Alleyn. He raised an eyebrow and stared fixedly at the little message. “Get the deceased’s handbag,” he said after a minute. “It’s out there.”

Fox went out and returned with a morocco handbag. Alleyn opened it and turned out the contents, and arranged them on the table. They were: A small case containing powder, a lipstick, a handkerchief, a purse, a pair of gloves, and a small pocketbook bound in red leather with a pencil attached.

“That’s it,” said Alleyn.

He opened the book and laid the note beside it. The paper corresponded exactly. He scribbled a word or two with the pencil.

“That’s it,” he repeated. “The lead is broken. There’s the same double line in each case.” He turned the leaves of the book. Cara Quayne had written extensively in it — shopping lists, appointments, memoranda. The notes came to an end about halfway through. Alleyn read the last one and looked up quickly.

“Got an evening paper, either of you?”

“I have,” said Fox, producing one, neatly folded, from his pocket.

“Does the new show at the Criterion open tomorrow?”

“You needn’t bother to look,” interrupted Nigel. “It does.”

“You have your uses,” grunted the inspector. “That fixes it then. She wrote the note today.”

“How do you know?” demanded Nigel.

“There’s a note on today’s page: ‘Dine and go “Hail Fellow”; Criterion, Raoul, tomorrow.’ I wanted to be sure she stuck to the printed date. The next page, tomorrow’s, is the one she tore out. There’s the date. She must have torn it out today.”

“Things are looking up a bit, aren’t they?” ventured Fox.

“Are they, Fox? Perhaps they are. And yet — it’s a sticky business, this. Light your pipe, my Foxkin, and do a bit of ’teckery. What’s in your mind, you sly old box of tricks?”

Fox lit his pipe, sat down, and gazed solemnly at his superior.

“Come on, now,” said Alleyn.

“Well, sir, it’s a bit early to speak anything like for sure, but say the lady knew what we know about the parcel there. Say she found it out today, when the parson was out — called in to see him perhaps.”

“And found the safe open?”

“Might be. Sounds kind of careless, but might be. Anyway, say she found out somehow and wanted to tell him. Say he came in, read the note, and — well, sir say he thought something would have to be done about it.”

“I don’t think he has read the note Fox.”

“Don’t you, sir?”

“No. We can see if his prints are on it. If he has read it I don’t think he’s a murderer.”

“Why not?” asked Nigel.