Too Many Cousins

When you go all bright and gladsome, it means you’re up to mischief.”
“I rather fancy someone else is,” Mr. Tuke replied, taking out his cigar-case.
“Whaddayou mean?” The Director was regarding his assistant with a shrewd if fishy eye. “What have you stuck your nose into now?”
He was feeling in the cigar-box on his desk for a Trichinopoli, and Mr. Tuke withdrew ostentatiously to light his own cigar at a distance.
“It is the other way about,” he said, when he had expelled a cloud of smoke. “Something has been stuck on my nose, so to speak.”
Sir Bruton groaned, banged his glasses on his desk, and swore, for they were a new pair. He broke his spectacles, on an average, once a month, repairing them with wire, adhesive tape, or whatever came handy: in his days at the Bar he had been known to lead in a murder trial with pipe-cleaners hooked over his ears.
“Regular bit of fly-paper, aren’t you?” he grunted. “What is it this time? Embezzlement, arson, barratry?——”
“It smells a bit of multiple murder.”
The Director emitted a sort of howl. He threw up his hands, spectacles in one and cheroot in the other, and glared ferociously at his subordinate.
“I won’t have it!” he roared. “You want to get your name in the cheap papers again, and I won’t have it. D’you hear? Just because you’ve brought off a fluke or two, you want to meddle again. It lowers the department. How often have I got to remind you that the functions of this office are advisory and directive, not nosing about? Leave that to the police.”
Mr. Tuke was adjusting himself on the small of his back in the only comfortable chair (the Director’s own excepted) which the room contained. He stretched out his long legs and drew on his cigar.
“How you do go on,” he said. “Now that the uproar has died down, perhaps I can finish. A rather queer business has been brought to my notice. Literally brought, and twice over—two complementary accounts from sources quite unrelated, to the best of my knowledge. As I say, it smells uncommonly like murder, in the plural, with possibly more to come. It may be nothing of the kind, but it wants looking into. Although I’m taking a well-earned holiday,” Mr. Tuke added virtuously, “I’ve trotted along, like a good citizen, to tell you all about it. And you bellow at me before I can even start.”
Sir Bruton remembered his cheroot, struck a match viciously, and blew a cloud of rank smoke in his assistant’s direction.
“Why tell me, eh? Why come back here? If it’s a police matter, go to the police. You’re known to ’em—too well.”
“I thought I would take your opinion on that.”
“Damned modest all of a sudden, aren’t you?”
“And then it is quite an interesting little story,” Mr. Tuke went on. “It occurred to me that you might need entertaining. It is always dull here when I’m away.”
Sir Bruton suddenly chuckled with a gobbling sound. “Well, spit it out,” he said. “Who’s getting murdered now? More of your pals?”
“A friend of Yvette’s seems to be in the danger zone.”
“Same thing. I might have known it. You’re becoming a regular Jonah, Tuke. But it’s a bit tough on your wife’s friends. You might leave them out of it.”
“ ‘Quand messieurs les assassins commencent,’ ” Mr. Tuke quoted, “I will with pleasure. Well, here’s the story.”
Since he had given it considerable thought, and was trained to a habit of clear exposition, the tale of Parmiter’s confidences and the singular sequel contributed by Gecile Boulanger were related with precision and despatch. Sir Bruton, sunk in his chair, his protuberant eyes closed, the Trichinopoli reeking between his lips, seemed to be half asleep; but this was his normal attitude of attention. It disconcerted self-important persons, who expected their audience to hang on their words, and who were apt to be further thrown out of their stride by the somnolent listener opening his eyes to stare fixedly at the large kitchen clock which hung opposite his desk. These tactics had got even a too talkative Prime Minister out of the room in record time.
When Mr. Tuke finished there was a little silence. Sir Bruton breathed heavily. Then he stirred, shaking cigar-ash over his ample waistcoat. One eye opened.
“Looks a bit fishy,” he rumbled. “But then so do lots of things. What the devil are you grinning at? ” he demanded truculently, opening the other eye.
Mr. Tuke salvaged the elements of subordination and effaced his smile. The Director stared at him suspiciously. Seizing a penholder, he began to probe his ear vigorously with it as he went on:
“Well, what’s your view, Tuke?”
“I told you. These three accidents should be inquired into.”
“They have been, haven’t they?”
“By three different police forces, you’ll note. London, Hertfordshire and Surrey. In the case of the army captain, the chances are it was a genuine accident. The M.P. don’t often slip up over that sort of thing. But the county constabularies aren’t always so thorough, as we have cause to know. And, in any case, has anybody connected the three deaths? I doubt it. Different names, in different localities, and one case six months old. Parmiter wasn’t so far out when he said that a man like himself would have his uses in a police force.”
“Don’t be so cocksure,” said Sir Bruton, rapping the desk with his penholder. “The Central Office may have connected ’em, looked into it, and decided there was nothing doing. The Yard isn’t fanciful, like you. And it does keep its eye on inquests and the papers. When was this last business, did you say?—the schoolmarm?”
“A fortnight ago. Bank Holiday Sunday. ”
“Know anything about the inquest?”
“No. Parmiter referred to it, and Mile Boulanger saw a report of it in the local paper rather mysteriously sent to her. It seems to have been quite slick. Too slick, perhaps.”
“What do you think of this French gal?”
“Obviously,” said Mr. Tuke, “anybody can say they’ve had a push in the back.