The Case Of William Smith by Patricia Wentworth Page A

would be a flop. He therefore clapped William on the shoulder, said, ‘You’re lucky not to be dead. Better be more careful about what enemies you make,’ and went off at a swinging stride. That he afterwards interviewed the elusive Mortimer with tact and penetration, wrote a brilliant article on him and his latest discovery, and about a month later published an intriguing sketch entitled ‘A Jab in the Back with a blunt Stick’ has of course nothing to do with this story.
    William caught his bus.
    He told Katharine all about his interview with Mr. Tattlecombe, but he didn’t tell her about the jab in the back. For one thing it would have seemed a stupid waste of time, and for another it might have frightened her. Also, coming along in the bus, the idea of a spotted animal with horns and a rolling eye had come into his mind, and he wanted to get it down on paper in case it faded. He thought of calling it the Crummocky Cow. Ideas were annoyingly apt to fade if you neglected them. The odd thing was that after doing his sketches, and having supper with Katharine, and talking over their plans in a state of happiness which was quite beyond anything he could have thought possible, he had no sooner said good-night to her and turned out of the Mews than the jab came back to him. It was partly, of course, that the place was uncommonly sore, but it was also partly that the voice of the erratic stranger who had most probably saved his life persisted in his mind — ‘Better be more careful about what enemies you make.’ Well, of course that was absurd, because he hadn’t an enemy in the world. Or had he? Someone had knocked him down and knocked him out. Someone had jabbed him in the back, and but for the arm of the erratic stranger he would have pitched forward under a regular juggernaut of a motor-bus.
    He walked as far as the Marble Arch and stood there waiting for a bus. Suddenly a voice said, ‘Hullo, Bill! How are you? None the worse?’ He turned to see Frank Abbott, very much off duty, in the most correct and up-to-date of evening clothes, his slim elegance accentuated, his whole appearance that of a leisurely young man about town— the last person on earth, it would be thought, to prompt a confidence. Yet William Smith was so prompted. Perhaps because the matter pressed upon his mind to the point of compelling him to make some effort to throw it off, or perhaps because of the name which belonged to his forgotten past. Be that as it may, he said quite simply and directly,
    ‘I’m all right, but something else has happened.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘About half-past seven this evening. Someone tried to push me under a bus.’
    ‘Someone tried to push you?’
    ‘Jabbed me in the back with a stick — I’ve got no end of a bruise. There was a crowd on an island. He jabbed me, and I’d have been under the bus if the man next to me hadn’t been extra strong in the arm.’
    ‘Where was this?’
    William told him.
    ‘I’d been to see Mr. Tattlecombe again. I walked as far as the High Street, and I was crossing over to get a bus.’
    ‘Were you followed?’
    ‘Not that I know of.’
    ‘You didn’t see who pushed you?’
    ‘The lights changed and everyone streamed off. There didn’t seem to be anyone the least bit likely. But of course he could have slipped away — gone back instead of crossing over — there was time before I got my footing and turned round. It — rather took me aback.’
    Frank was frowning slightly.
    ‘Want to report the matter to the police?’
    William shook his head.
    ‘I don’t see what they could do.’
    Frank took out a thin notebook, wrote in it, and tore out the page. He said,
    ‘It looks to me as if someone was finding you inconvenient. If you don’t want to go to the police, I wonder if you would care to consult a friend of mine. She used to be a governess. Now she undertakes private enquiries — which she spells with an ‘e’. She’s been mixed up, one way or another, with more