The Pothunters, P. G. Wodehouse [digital book reader .TXT] 📗

himself on not being obliged to spend the evening in a series of painful interviews, as had happened the night before, when Parker, the butler, entered the room.

“Well, Parker, what is it?” asked he.

“Mr. Roberts, sir, wishes to see you.”

For a moment the Head was at a loss. He could not recall any friend or acquaintance of that name. Then he remembered that Roberts was the name of the detective who had come down from London to look into the matter of the prizes.

“Very well,” he said, resignedly, “show him into the study.”

Parker bowed, and retired. The Head, after an interval, followed him, and made his way to the study.

XV Mr. Roberts Explains

Inspector Roberts was standing with his back to the door, examining a photograph of the College, when the Head entered. He spun round briskly. “Good evening, Mr. Roberts. Pray be seated. You wish to see me?”

The detective took a seat.

“This business of the cups, sir.”

“Ah!” said the Head, “have you made any progress?”

“Considerable. Yes, very considerable progress. I’ve found out who stole them.”

“You have?” cried the Head. “Excellent. I suppose it was Thomson, then? I was afraid so.”

“Thomson, sir? That was certainly not the name he gave me. Stokes he called himself.”

“Stokes? Stokes? This is curious. Perhaps if you were to describe his appearance? Was he a tall boy, of a rather slight build⁠—”

The detective interrupted.

“Excuse me, sir, but I rather fancy we have different persons in our mind. Stokes is not a boy. Not at all. Well over thirty. Red moustache. Height, five foot seven, I should say. Not more. Works as a farmhand when required, and does odd jobs at times. That’s the man.”

The Head’s face expressed relief, as he heard this description. “Then Thomson did not do it after all,” he said.

“Thomson?” queried Mr. Roberts.

“Thomson,” explained the Head, “is the name of one of the boys at the School. I am sorry to say that I strongly suspected him of this robbery.”

“A boy at the School. Curious. Unusual, I should have thought, for a boy to be mixed up in an affair like this. Though I have known cases.”

“I was very unwilling, I can assure you, to suspect him of such a thing, but really the evidence all seemed to point to it. I am afraid, Mr. Roberts, that I have been poaching on your preserves without much success.”

“Curious thing evidence,” murmured Mr. Roberts, fixing with his eye a bust of Socrates on the writing desk, as if he wished it to pay particular attention to his words. “Very curious. Very seldom able to trust it. Case the other day. Man charged with robbery from the person. With violence. They gave the case to me. Worked up beautiful case against the man. Not a hitch anywhere. Whole thing practically proved. Man brings forward alibi. Proves it. Turned out that at time of robbery he had been serving seven days without the option for knocking down two porters and a guard on the District Railway. Yet the evidence seemed conclusive. Yes, curious thing evidence.” He nodded solemnly at Socrates, and resumed an interested study of the carpet.

The Head, who had made several spirited attempts at speaking during this recital, at last succeeded in getting in a word.

“You have the cups?”

“No. No, cups still missing. Only flaw in the affair. Perhaps I had better begin from the beginning?”

“Exactly. Pray let me hear the whole story. I am more glad than I can say that Thomson is innocent. There is no doubt of that, I hope?”

“Not the least, sir. Not the very least. Stokes is the man.”

“I am very glad to hear it.”

The inspector paused for a moment, coughed, and drifted into his narrative.

“… Saw at once it was not the work of a practised burglar. First place, how could regular professional know that the cups were in the Pavilion at all? Quite so. Second place, work very clumsily done. No neatness. Not the professional touch at all. Tell it in a minute. No mistaking it. Very good. Must, therefore, have been amateur⁠—this night only⁠—and connected with School. Next question, who? Helped a little there by luck. Capital thing luck, when it’s not bad luck. Was passing by the village inn⁠—you know the village inn, I daresay, sir?”

The Head, slightly scandalised, explained that he was seldom in the village. The detective bowed and resumed his tale.

“As I passed the door, I ran into a man coming out. In a very elevated, not to say intoxicated, state. As a matter of fact, barely able to stand. Reeled against wall, and dropped handful of money. I lent helping hand, and picked up his money for him. Not my place to arrest drunken men. Constable’s! No constable there, of course. Noticed, as I picked the money up, that there was a good deal of it. For ordinary rustic, a very good deal. Sovereign and plenty of silver.” He paused, mused for a while, and went on again.

“Yes. Sovereign, and quite ten shillings’ worth of silver. Now the nature of my profession makes me a suspicious man. It struck me as curious, not to say remarkable, that such a man should have thirty shillings or more about him so late in the week. And then there was another thing. I thought I’d seen this particular man somewhere on the School grounds. Couldn’t recall his face exactly, but just had a sort of general recollection of having seen him before. I happened to have a camera with me. As a matter of fact I had been taking a few photographs of the place. Pretty place, sir.”

“Very,” agreed the Head.

“You photograph yourself, perhaps?”

“No. I⁠—ah⁠—do not.”

“Ah. Pity. Excellent hobby. However⁠—I took a snapshot of this man to show to somebody who might know him better than I did. This is the photograph. Drunk as a lord, is he not?”

He exhibited a small piece of paper. The Head examined it gravely, and admitted that the subject of the picture did not appear to be ostentatiously sober. The