English detective story.

It was summer. Lord Asquith was reading a detective story in the garden of his Devonshire mansion. The luminous atmosphere, the drone of the locusts, and that extra glass of claret at lunch made him sleepy, but Lord Asquith continued to read. When he came to page 141--the part where a drowsy English lord was reading a detective story in the garden of his mansion--he was interrupted by the butler, who approached the wicker armchair silently and said "Sir?"

"Yes."

"The telephone, sir, Lady Agatha."

Lord Asquith stood up, placed the book open to page 141 on the cushion embroidered with the family coat of arms which he used as a seat in the wicker armchair he'd brought back from India, and went to the telephone in the library. "Yes?" he said, somewhat irritably.

"It's Agatha."

"I know it's Agatha. What do you want?"

"I've been thinking."

"Heaven help us."

"What?"

"You've been thinking. That is a sure omen of impending calamity. Don't think, Agatha. Your brain is one of the last areas of the world in perfectly primitive condition. Don't spoil it with the white man's culture."

"I've been thinking about a way to ruin you forever."

"Ah, well. For a moment I thought it might be something important."

"Is that all you have to say to me?"

"The last word I had to say to you, Agatha, was said years ago. If I recall correctly, it was goodbye."

"You're a dog."

"And you're a bitch. I'm surprised our marriage didn't work out well. We had biology working for us."

"Just you wait until you see tomorrow's papers. The tabloids. I'm going to tell the whole world about you. That'll be the end of you--your peace and quiet, your damned detective stories. You can say goodbye to all that too."

The inspector examined the book left face down on the cushion. At the bottom of page 141, Lady Agatha was threatening to tell everything she knew about Lord Asquith to the tabloids. the inspector turned the page. At the top of page 142, Inspector Forthright was questioning the butler, as he examined the book left face down on the cushion: "Are you sure he didn't come back to this chair?"

"Yes indeed, sir. After hanging up the telephone he went directly to the garage. He then got into the car and drove away in a hurry."

"Did he seem upset or nervous?"

"I'm afraid he did, sir."

"Was he carrying a weapon? A blunt object, perhaps?"

"Such as a poker?"

"Yes."

"I'm afraid one of the pokers from the library fireplace is missing."

"Hmmm. It was a poker that killed Lady Agatha."

The inspector continued reading page 142.

"Take me to the library."

"Yes, sir. This way, sir."

The inspector replaced the book, open to page 142, on the cushion and followed the butler. When they returned to the garden ten minutes later, Lord Asquith was seated in the wicker armchair, the open book in his hands. The butler was wide-eyed. But Inspector Forthright did not appear to be disconcerted. Without removing his pipe from his mouth, he asked: "Lord Asquith?"

"Yes."

"Where have you been all afternoon?"

"Right here, reading. Except for two minutes when I took a call at the telephone in the library. Why?"

"Your butler tells me you didn't return to this chair after speaking on the telephone. He says that you left in a hurry in the car, rather upset and carrying a poker."

Lord Asquith eyed him pityingly.

"How many times have I told you, James? That extra glass of wine at lunch will catch up to you yet. I haven't left this chair, Inspector. Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not the one who killed Lady Agatha."

The inspector smiled with the side of his mouth that was not occupied by his pipe. "And how do you know that Lady Agatha was killed?"

"It says so right here, my dear fellow. Page 142. You said so yourself."

The inspector seemed to be making an effort to keep the pipe from falling out of his mouth. The two men looked at each other in silence for a few minutes. Finally the inspector said: "And the pokers from the library fireplace?"

"It's summer. We never use the fireplace in summer, no matter what people say about British eccentricity. The pokers are kept in the shed."

The inspector didn't know what to say. Perhaps page 143 would tell him. "Do you mind if I have a look at that book?" he asked.

"Sorry, inspector." Lord Asquith smiled. "You've interrupted my quiet, but you shall not invade my detective story. At least not without a warrant. Good day, inspector. Or should I say good night?"

The inspector left. Lord Asquith began to read again. Strange--it was growing dark already, and he was only on page 143. A whole afternoon to read two pages. Could he have fallen asleep without realizing it? And what were those red blotches on teh book, like bloody fingerprints? He turned the page. On page 144, the butler approached the wicker armchair silently and said: "Sir?"

"I know. The telephone."

"No, sir. An inspector to see you. Something about Lady Agatha."