BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY ERNEST DUDLEY

      The Amazing Martin Brett: Classic Crime Stories

      Department of Spooks: Stories of Suspense and Mystery

      Dr. Morelle Investigates: Two Classic Crime Tales

      Dr. Morelle Meets Murder: Classic Crime Stories

      New Cases for Dr. Morelle: Classic Crime Stories

      The Return of Sherlock Holmes: A Classic Crime Tale

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2012 by Susan Dudley-Allen

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      For Susan Dudley-Allen

      THE CASE OF THE BURIED HATCHET

      I opened the door with MARTIN BRETT on the frosted-glass panel and went in. He was standing by the window looking down at the street, and as I crossed over I caught a glimpse below of the tall, plump figure that was Farringdon Tisdall get into a sleek limousine and drive off. The great financier had just left after half-an-hour’s interview with Mr. Brett, and the aroma of cigar hung expensively all over the office. He had also left a retaining-fee of mouth-watering magnitude, his personal cheque for which I placed on the desk.

      “What it must be like to be filthy rich,” I said. I was thinking of how the money could set me up cosily in the way of frothy frillies and other girlish fancies.

      “They tell me you can still sleep badly for all the cash in Farringdon Tindall’s coffers,” Mr. Brett said over his shoulder.

      I said: “If you had that amount to spend, who’d worry about wasting time in bed.”

      Still without turning his gaze from the direction the car had gone, Mr. Brett said; “Perhaps you’ll be intrigued to know you won’t be climbing into your cot early tonight, anyway.”

      Which brought from me a look of interest plus surprise, plus slight apprehension. What job were we going on this time after office-hours? I said: “Mr. Brett? Someone we know throwing a party?”

      He came away from the window, moved slowly to his desk, tapped the ash off his cigarette. “Farringdon Tisdall is,” he said. “We’re invited.”

      “How awfully jolly of him,” I said as casually as I could. Though, of course, I was rather thrilled. I’d got a cunning little white number I hadn’t worn since I bought it, and this promised to be the sort of occasion where it should be put to the test. There’d be a really smart crowd there, I knew. I’d heard of the kind of parties Farringdon Tisdall put on. Everything regardless. But inside that new gown and a hair-do—if my hairdresser could fit it in—I felt I could cope. I asked:

      “What are we there for, to keep an eye on the silver?”

      He handed me a small piece of paper. It had been torn from an ordinary writing pad and on it were gummed in letters cut from a newspaper:

      ‘DEAR SIR—SOMEONE WILL BE AFTER

      THE CRIMSON LAKE TONIGHT. THIS IS

      A WARNING FROM A

      WELL-WISHER.’

      Mr. Brett explained; “The Crimson Lake is a ruby, quite an expensive piece.” He nodded towards the bit of paper. “He received it this morning.”

      “Has he got anyone in mind?”

      “Nobody in particular. But after he brushed off my suggestion, mightn’t it merely be a hoax, he pointed out there’ll be two or three hundred guests stamping around tonight. Among them possibly one who simply can’t wait to get his hands on the ruby.”

      “I should have thought if he’d locked the thing away somewhere good and safe, he’d have nothing to worry about.”

      He eyed the tip of his cigarette and said slowly: “That did occur to me, too.”

      There was a faintly derisive note in his voice, which made me glance at him sharply. But he only grinned at me enigmatically and bunged into the chair and put his feet up on the desk. I studied the warning message again in case I’d missed anything significant about it. I noticed the letters were neatly cut out and showed up with a pinkish edge to them against the white paper on which they’d been gummed. Nothing startling in all that though, and I looked inquiringly at Mr. Brett. His long face was as full of expression as a poker-playing mandarin—if mandarins play poker, which is something I’ve never asked about.

      “I’m a girl of simple ideas,” I shrugged. “So whatever it is goes on, goes on way over my head.”

      “I didn’t say anything.”

      “It’s what you’re thinking.”

      “Something tells me you evidently suspect more in this than meets the eye.” He indicated Farringdon Tisdall’s cheque. “Personally, only thing of any importance meets my eye is that. Which offers me the greatest inducement, so far, for taking on the job.” He paused. “And yet somehow, Beautiful,” he went on—and I gave him the chill stare I always handed him when he used that familiar tone with me—“I’m getting the idea there night be another interesting attraction to the case after all. Apart from this,” picking up the cheque and carefully putting it in his wallet.

      I didn’t get his drift at all. But something had caused him to reach the conclusion he was going to have to work harder on the job this evening than merely prop up Farringdon Tisdell’s buffet-bar. I had the smart idea the cheque had something to do with it. I’d never known him act like that over one before, tucking it away as if it were a vital clue or something. Always cheques were just put aside until I paid them into his account in the routine way. But this one was obviously more important than that. How or why exactly I couldn’t guess, so I waited for him to tell me more.

      His eyes were narrowed as he said: “I’ll need all the dope on Tisdall pronto. Bill Foster will fix you up. You’ll have to see him personally, so better organize it soon’s you had your lunch.”

      “Yes, Mr. Brett.” I glanced at my wristwatch. “If that’ll be all for now, I’ll start moving. It’s about time to put on the nose-bag.”

      He nodded. “Dig up everything you can from the Tisdall files, and flutter your long eyelashes at Bill. When it comes to knowing the inside stuff on people, his big ear’s closer to the ground than anyone in Fleet Street. Especially if it’s dirty ground.”

      I resented his suggestion as being uncalled for, and unnecessary I switched on the old eye-work business with men. After all, I can’t help it if my eyelashes are long. But Mr. Brett always likes to get in a dig at my face or figure, just because I don’t happen to look like the back of a cab, and my curves happen in the right places. As I’ve probably mentioned before, I have the notion he sounds off that way on account of some secret sorrow, some woman in his past. Which is a pity; plenty fall for him who could help him forget that yesterday’s memory if he’d give them the chance. But all they ever get from him is the sort of encouragement you’d give a cobra without its fangs drawn.

      However, I just pretended not to notice he’d said anything I didn’t like, and said: “I gather you think Mr. Tisdall may have a skeleton in his cupboard?”

      “Now you come to mention it,” he said, “I fancy I did catch the echo of something rattling back of his mind during our little chat. Or it may only have been the mice.”

      And with a sardonic grin Mr. Brett stubbed out his cigarette and left it at that. I manhandled a sandwich and two cups of coffee at a cafeteria and grabbed a taxi for Fleet Street. As I paid it off outside the Daily Courier office, I was just in time to catch Bill Foster coming through the swing doors. He was looking bigger and untidier than ever and whooped like a Red Indian when he saw me. He was going for a drink and a bite, but when I told him what I was after, he took my arm in his dear old breezy way and we went up in the lift to the newsroom. It was pretty quiet as newsrooms went, and I parked