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988 pages, Hardcover
First published September 9, 2014
After a case is concluded and he is ready to talk about it, he sends a note to three friends who come to his house to listen. He settles into his easy chair, lights a pipe, and recounts the adventure without preamble. When the story is finished, he genially says “out you go” and the evening is concluded.
Murder tales seem nice things sometimes for a lady to sit and read all by herself by the fire. But murder isn’t a nice thing, and when a murderer’s desperate and trying to hide his tracks he isn’t even as nice as he was before. I’ll ask you to bear it in mind. Well, I’ve warned you.
That’s really the crab of the story, if you’ll excuse the expression.
You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor.
Belamy rose from his couch and pulled the plug out of the coffee percolater.
‘Me for some breakfast,’ he said.
The sacred rite of the “tub” had been duly performed, and the freshly-dried person of the present narrator was about to be insinuated into the first instalment of clothing, when a hurried step was heard upon the stair, and the voice of our laboratory assistant, Polton, arose at my colleague’s door.
Every window concealed a nest of aristocratic pirates plotting and scheming for more gold. In the street the hoi polloi were running errands for them, enviously cognizant of the shiny silk hats and limousines of their employers.
“There will be no fire here, and no flood, either. A book in my library will be, ah, what is the expression? Snug as a slug in a rug.”
“A bug,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A bug in a rug,” I said. “I think that’s the expression.”
His response was a shrug, the sort you’d get, I suppose, from a slug in a rug.
Now don’t go talkin’ that way,” he soothed. “People can’t help it when they get that kleptomania, any more than they can help sleep-walkin’ or coke-snuffin.
He had goggling, bloodshot eyes, mangy mustaches, and a broken nose. His voice betrayed a barrack-room intonation of the worst order, and he had the dirtiest pair of hands I ever saw – even in France.