“Under the snow? That puts the murder on the night of the fifteenth. Yes, that fits; that accounts for his sodden clothes.” “There’s a good deal it don’t account for,” said Bell gloomily. “I saw him just as he was found?” Bell nodded. “Somebody took a lot of pains with him. He was fully dressed--collar and tie, boots. But a lot of his internal buttons were undone. And there’s not a name, not even a maker’s name, on any of his clothes. His linen’s new and don’t show a laundry mark. Yes, somebody took a lot of pains we shouldn’t know him.” “I don’t know what you’re getting at, sir.” “Don’t you? Is it likely a man wearing decent clothes would not have his linen marked and his tailor’s name somewhere? Is it likely a man who had his tie and collar on wouldn’t do up his undershirt? No. The beggar’s clothes were changed after he was killed. That must have been a grisly business too. He’s not a tender-hearted fellow who did this job. Valet the body you’ve killed and then bash its face in! Well, well! Have some more tea?” “Not me,” said Bell, with a gulp. “You talked about a madman, sir, didn’t you?” “Oh, no, no, no. Not the kind of mad that runs amuck. Not homicidal mania. This isn’t just smashing up a chap’s body for the sake of smashing. There’s lots of purpose here. This is damned cold, calculating crime. That kind of mad. Some fellow’s got an object that makes it worth while to him to do any beastliness. That’s the worst kind of mad, Bell. Not homicidal mania--that only makes a man a beast. What’s here is the sort of thing that makes a man a devil.” “You’re going a bit beyond me, sir. It’s a bloody murder, and that’s all I want.” “Yes, that’s our job,” said Reggie thoughtfully. Together they went off to Montmorency House. “How would you describe deceased, sir?” said Bell. “Man of about fifty, under middle height, inclined to be stout, unusual bald.” “It ain’t much to go by, is it?” Bell sighed. “We don’t so much as know if he was clean shaved or not.” “He was, I think. I saw no trace of facial hair. But it’s rash to argue from not finding things. And he might have been shaved after he was killed.” “And then smashed? My Lord! And they smashed him thorough too, didn’t they?” “Very logical bit of crime, Bell.” “Logical! God bless my soul! But I mean to say, sir, we haven’t got much to go on. Suppose I advertise there’s a man of fifty missing, rather short and stout and bald, I shall look a bit of an ass.” “Well, I wouldn’t advertise. He’d had an operation, by the way--on the ear. But I wouldn’t say that either. In fact, I wouldn’t say anything about him just yet. Hold your trumps.” “Trumps? What is trumps then, Mr. Fortune?” “Anything you know is always trumps.” “You’ll excuse me, but it’s not my experience, sir.”