The Case of Naomi Clynes by Basil Thomson

questions of a man that they are going to charge with a crime…”
    â€œGood Lord! Then how can you expect ever to get home on a case? They’ve got soft in America now, I’m told. That’s why there’s so much crime there. They grill their men, of course, but they’ve gone bald-headed for tiring them out, and for using scientific instruments. In California, I’m told, they use a gadget which they call a ‘lie-detector.’ They roll up the guy’s sleeve and shove his naked arm into a tube of liquid connected with a dial on the wall. When the sleuth who’s grilling him asks him a stiff question the blood flies to his head from all parts of the body; the arm gets thinner, and the needle on the dial goes down a few degrees. The super-sleuth’s face hardens. ‘You’re a liar,’ he says. ‘Look at the needle on that dial,’ and the guy shouts, ‘Take this damned thing off my arm and I’ll say everything you want me to.’ That’s the modern scientific method of crime detection. I suppose that you’ve got that gadget at Scotland Yard. Do you think it’s better than the hose-pipe?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Milsom, we have none of these things except fingerprints, and we’re debarred from grilling people, but we manage to get home all right. You see we’ve got a big machine behind us, and I came here this morning to ask you if you would consent to play the part of a wheel in the big machine.”
    â€œOf course I will. What do you want me to do?”
    â€œWell, rather by luck than good management, we have got hold of a letter addressed to Miss Clynes by an American lady living in Paris a week or two ago, apparently in answer to a letter written to her by Miss Clynes. We want to get hold of that letter, and it would be a help to us if you made friends with this Miss or Mrs. Sidmore and got her to tell you all she knows about Miss Clynes. Here is a copy of her letter.”
    Milsom read the letter with knitted brow. “I see that she talks about the old, sad days. That must mean that she was in Naomi Clynes’ confidence. When do you want me to go?”
    â€œAs soon as you can, Mr. Milsom.”
    â€œI shall have to square things with my chairman to-day, and I can start by the morning boat to-morrow. No, stop! You folks at the Yard always work under a full head of steam. I’ll write a note to the old man and fly over from Croydon. You’ll leave a copy of this letter with me?”
    â€œI brought it for that purpose, Mr. Milsom.”
    â€œWithers,” shouted Milsom, “I’m off to Paris in an hour’s time. Shove some things into a bag for me while I’m dressing and have a taxi here in twenty minutes. So long, Richardson. Expect me back with the murderer in handcuffs.”

Chapter Seven
    T HE BIG Air-France machine circled over Le Bourget up to time. A taxi carried James Milsom from the airplane office to the Grand Hotel in the Avenue de l’Opéra. Knowing that offices are closed during the sacred two hours devoted to lunch, he booked his room and assuaged his own appetite. At two o’clock he found the office open. Several depressed-looking young women were tapping on typewriters; one of them rose to receive him and conducted him to the principal, Mrs. Sidmore, who occupied an office on the first floor.
    â€œA gentleman to see you, Madame,” she said, announcing Milsom, who found himself in the presence of a grey-haired American woman with a very pleasant face.
    â€œI’ve just come over from London, Madame, on purpose to see you. I belong to a firm of publishers who are bringing out a book of Miss Naomi Clynes. I think she wrote to you about it. My name is James Milsom.”
    â€œIs that so? You know Miss Naomi Clynes?”
    â€œI did know her, Madame.”
    â€œAnd I hope you know her still.”
    â€œYou haven’t heard the news then: she’s