The Silk Stocking Murders by Anthony Berkeley Page B

later, that George Dunning was a bachelor, about thirty years old, with a large private income, who occupied a flat in one of the expensive streets off Piccadilly; he was a member of several clubs, duly mentioned, had been educated at Rugby and Cambridge, and had played Rugger several times for the latter without, however, obtaining his blue.
    “Hullo,” said Roger, studying this record with attention, “he’s a member of the Oxford and Cambridge, is he? I wonder if he ever goes there. I could scrape acquaintance with him, perhaps.”
    “Do, if you can, Mr. Sheringham,” approved Moresby. “But don’t give anything away, of course,” he added, not without a certain anxiety. “He mustn’t know we’re on his track.”
    Roger looked at his collaborator with dignity.
    “And don’t start trying to pump him till I give you the word,” added the Chief Inspector, unabashed by the look. “I don’t want him frightened. And remember, we haven’t finished checking yet. There’s the results of that notepaper inquiry to come in first, and that’s pretty sure to knock two of ’em out.”
    “Leaving George Dunning in,” Roger retorted. “Very well, Moresby, I’ll try to refrain from telling him everything about us the first time I meet him, and I think it’s very good of you to trust me so far.”
    Chief Inspector Moresby beamed paternally.
    Leaving shortly after, Roger made his way to the Oxford and Cambridge Club for lunch, feeling that he could not get on Mr. Dunning’s trail too soon. As he walked briskly along he had not the least doubt that the murderer had been identified; now all that remained was proof. And in the collecting of proof Roger was glad not to be hampered by the restrictions set on the professional detective. He saw the glimmerings of one or two pretty little plans to that end which would certainly not have met with official approval.
    On enquiring of the porter he learned that Mr. Dunning was not in the club at the moment. Enquiring further, he was told that Mr. Dunning did not come very often, not above two or three times a month. This was discouraging. However, Roger adhered to his scheme, feeling that after all it was quite time he did lunch at the Oxford and Cambridge, not having done so for at least a year, and soon found himself seated in the dining-room in solitary state. He chose a fillet steak and fried potatoes, with a pint of old beer, and looked round for a friendly face. Not one was in sight.
    Nevertheless, Roger was not to lunch alone that day. Just as his steak was being set before him ten minutes later a voice hailed him, a little doubtfully, from behind his left shoulder. Spinning round he saw Pleydell standing by his chair and jumped up at once.
    “You’ve saved me,” he said swiftly, grasping the opportunity before it could elude him. “I was frightened to death that I’d got to eat my lunch in complete silence, a thing I abhor. If you’re not meeting anyone, come and lunch with me, won’t you?”
    “I should be very glad,” returned Pleydell courteously, and took the opposite chair.
    “You’re Roger Sheringham, the novelist, aren’t you?” he went on, when they were seated. “I thought your face was familiar to me when I met you at Scotland Yard yesterday.”
    “And I had a vague idea I’d seen you before, too,” Roger agreed. “I remember now; it was here, of course, though I didn’t know your name. Didn’t we meet in a rubber of bridge about two years ago? I remember Frank Merriman was playing.”
    “That’s right,” Pleydell acquiesced with a smile. “It’s extraordinary how one meets fellows like that for a short time, without gathering their names or anything about them, and then perhaps doesn’t see them again for years, isn’t it?”
    They exchanged a few conventional reminiscences, and Roger learnt that his guest had been at Cambridge but had had to leave early owing to the War. Having exhausted reminiscences the conversation hovered