LITMIR.BIZ

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was addressed to us care of the hotel. I’ll show you the wrapper – it’s got a London postmark – but I don’t think there’s anything on it to help us.’

      The magazine was called the New Feature. Holt knew of it, though he seldom read it. He looked at Scranton inquiringly.

      ‘It’s page eighteen that we’re supposed to read,’ Scranton said tensely.

      Holt flicked over the pages, aware how intently they were regarding him. Page eighteen carried only one article, with the heading ‘Britain and Europe’. He scanned the paragraphs hurriedly, then his eye jumped to the author’s name printed in discreet type at the foot of the page: PROSPERO.

      Holt had no idea who Prospero might be, but the person who had sent the magazine evidently knew; the nom de plume had been underlined twice in green ink, and alongside was written the cryptic sentence:

      If you want to know who murdered your son, ask Prospero.

      Holt studied the handwriting for a moment, then asked, ‘Was this all you received?’

      ‘Yes, just that,’ Scranton replied. ‘We’re been through it from cover to cover, haven’t we, Mother? As for the article itself, it’s kinda heavy going, if you know what I mean – politics, economics, and all that sort of thing. I don’t think there’s anything of significance in it for us.’

      ‘And who is Prospero?’

      ‘That’s just it – we haven’t been able to find out. I tried phoning this morning, but the magazine won’t play. They seemed to be scared I wanted to challenge Prospero to a duel or something – maybe slap a libel suit on him.’

      ‘How about the police, Mr Scranton? Shouldn’t this copy of the magazine go to them anyway?’

      Scranton, who had been sitting next to Holt as they studied the magazine, now stirred uneasily and glanced across at his wife sitting very erect in a highbacked armchair. She gave him a little nod of encouragement and he uncoiled his long, bony body and stood up.

      He wore a dark suit, well-cut but of rather poor cloth, a smart white shirt, and a dark tie. The face was lean, angular, and close shaven, and his iron-grey hair was cropped close to the skull. Holt got the impression of a pleasant, unpretentious businessman with little physical or intellectual vanity but plenty of shrewd commercial acumen.

      With long, easy strides Scranton began pacing the room. ‘I’ll lay my cards on the table, Mr Holt, without any evasion – that way you can say straight out whether you like the proposition or not. The fact is, I want your help. We want it, Mother and me. We want your help and we’re prepared to pay for it.’

      ‘My help? In finding out who Prospero is?’ asked Holt, puzzled. ‘Well, I don’t suppose that will be very difficult.’

      ‘No, it’s much more than that. I want to hire your services as a private investigator. I want you to find out who murdered my son. Isn’t that right, Mother?’

      Holt looked astounded and Mrs Scranton blushed slightly. ‘Robert is very blunt, Mr Holt, you mustn’t mind, it’s just his way. But I can’t tell you how grateful we’d be if we could enlist your help in getting to the bottom of this dreadful business.’

      ‘But, Mrs Scranton, here in Britain we have an excellent police force and I’m sure they’ll do everything necessary to find out—’

      ‘Oh, they’re doubtless very painstaking and honest,’ Scranton interjected. ‘If I’d lost a diamond ring or a pet poodle I’d be perfectly willing to leave things in their hands. But I haven’t – I’ve lost a son! Brutally murdered as he sat at his books, boning up hard, trying to be a credit to us and the Faculty that awarded him that Exchange Scholarship from the States. Vance was a fine boy, Mr Holt, he had a big future ahead of him as a writer …’

      ‘As a writer? Was that what he was studying?’

      ‘No, not exactly. But that’s how it turned out. He was doing courses in history, philosophy, economics – the whole works. I don’t know if he would ever have made the grade as a writer; we never shall know now. To tell the honest truth, I’d always hoped he might get his feed-bag full and come back to the States one day, maybe help out on the sales side of our business … But we’re getting off the point! Vance was our only son and we want to find out who shot him, and why. The police have got the case in hand, but those boys have got their hands full. They’re swamped by the crime wave. Am I right?’

      ‘What you say is true, but—’

      ‘It’s the same back in the States. There’s someone murdered every few minutes, and half the crimes are never solved. The cops just can’t keep pace with it all.’

      ‘We’ll co-operate all we can with the British police, and we know they’ll do their best,’ put in Mrs Scranton. ‘But that’s not enough. We want a private investigator who’s only got one job on his hands – the job of nailing the man who shot Vance.’

      Scranton stopped his pacing and turned to face Holt. ‘Well, what do you say? Will you take the job?’

      Holt chose his words carefully. ‘You have my fullest sympathy, both of you – but … well, I’m afraid my answer has to be no. You see, I’m not a private investigator; I don’t know who told you to the contrary. My business is photography. I dare say I could find out for you who this fellow Prospero is, but after that I can’t imagine how I could help you.’

      Robert Scranton smiled and took Holt’s glass to the cocktail cabinet to replenish it. Over his shoulder he said, ‘If I’ve never encountered the famous British reticence before I sure have run full tilt into it now! I can see I shall have to lay some more cards on the table. I don’t have the full details, Mr Holt, but I heard you’d been pretty smart in solving a murder case last year, and—’

      ‘Where did you hear that?’ Holt asked sharply.

      ‘Well, that’s what Abe Jenkins told me.’

      Holt sat up straight, genuinely puzzled. ‘Who’s Abe Jenkins?’

      It was the American’s turn to look surprised. ‘You mean to say you don’t know Abe Jenkins? He sure knows all about you – and not just the fact that you’re a wow with a camera, either! He’s the guy who got into the Customs Hall at the airport and took my picture, just when the Inspector broke the news.’

      ‘And you liked that?’ Holt said a trifle thinly.

      ‘No, sir, not at all! Not at all! I felt good and mad when I realised what was going on, but by that time it was too late. Believe me, I was in no hurry to meet up with that guy again, but there he was at the morgue this morning when I was driven there to identify Vance’s body. Jenkins is a crime reporter working for one of your big newspapers. He saw me talking to you at the airport yesterday, and this morning he asked me if I was thinking of hiring you.’

      ‘Really, Robert! What a clumsy phrase!’ Mrs Scranton reproved.

      Her husband looked slightly abashed and mumbled an apology. ‘That’s how Jenkins said it, not me. I asked him what he meant and – well, he kinda led me to believe you were a private investigator.’

      Abe Jenkins had evidently done a good deal of nosing around, Holt reflected, for the part he and Ruth had played in the case had been given little or no publicity, owing to its rather unorthodox character. ‘Remarkable,’ he said bitterly. ‘Tell me, Mr Scranton: did this Abe Jenkins chap pass himself off as a friend of mine?’

      ‘No, as a matter of fact he did not! To tell the truth, I almost got the impression that he doesn’t like you at all.’

      ‘But I’ve never done him any harm – I don’t even know the fellow!’

      ‘Could it be professional jealousy, Mr Holt? You’ve reached the top of your profession in the photographic world, whereas he still appears to be lugging a press camera around in search of lucky snapshots. He also seems to fancy himself as a

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