The Amateur Crime by A. B. Cox Contents Prologue I. The Nesbitt Combination II. From Cocktails to Criminology III. Mr. Priestley Is Adventurous IV. Red Blood and Red Ink V. Confusing the Issue VI. Adventures of a Pair of Handcuffs VII. Inspector Cottingham Smells Blood VIII. Two into One Will Go IX. George Says Nothing, Much X. Laura Surpasses Herself XI. Perspicacity of a Chief Constable XII. Mr. Priestley Becomes an Uncle XIII. Cynthia Begins to Smile XIV. Interesting Scene in a Tool-Shed XV. Various People Get Busy XVI. Mr. Priestley Bursts a Bombshell XVII. Awkward Predicament of Some Conspirators XVIII. Mr. Priestley Solves His Last Problem TO MY SISTER Prologue The young man waved his arms violently. “You’re a cabbage!” he shouted. “A turnip! A vegetable marrow! A—” He paused. “A snail!” he concluded, relinquishing this horticultural catalogue. Mr. Matthew Priestley blinked at him mildly through his glasses. “Am I, Pat?” he asked, not without surprise. “Yes, you are.” From his stand upon the hearthrug the young man contemplated his host with extreme severity. “How old are you, Priestley?” he demanded at length. “Thirty-six,” apologised Mr. Priestley. “Thirty-six!” repeated the young man with remarkable scorn. “And what do you think people would take you for?” “Thirty-five?” hazarded Mr. Priestley optimistically. “Certainly not!” said the young man sharply. “Sixty-five, more like.” “Oh, no, Pat,” protested Mr. Priestley, pained. “At least sixty-five,” rejoined the young man firmly. “And no wonder. Do you know what you are, Priestley?” “Well, yes,” said Mr. Priestley, a little doubtfully, “I’m a cabbage, and a vegetable-marrow, and a snail, and——” “You’re a limpet!” “A limpet as well?” said Mr. Priestley, with distress. “Now, what makes you say that, Pat?” “Well, look at you!” observed the young man shortly. Mr. Priestley obeyed. “I seem much the same as usual,” he ventured. “That’s the whole point!” the young man said with force. “You’re always much the same as usual. Always!” “I wear a different suit nearly every day,” Mr. Priestley protested wistfully. “You know what I mean. Look at you—thirty-six, and as set and unenterprising as a man of sixty! Why don’t you move out of your rotten little rut, man? Move about! See life! Have adventures!” The young man ran a sensitive hand through his rather long black hair. Mr. Priestley looked round the cosy bachelor room in the cosy bachelor flat; if it was a rut, it was a remarkably pleasant one. “It’s curious how restless love seems to make a man,” he observed mildly. The young man stamped violently several times up and down the room. “I’m not restless!” he exclaimed loudly. “I’m happy!” “I see,” replied Mr. Priestley with humility. “Have another drink, won’t you?” The young man manipulated the decanter and siphon. “I do hate to see a man vegetating,” he growled into his glass.