Free Governing Passion by Don Gutteridge

she left the job at
midnight, as usual.”
    “The gentleman in question could tell me so,
couldn’t he?”
    Madame looked wary. “I don’t see any need for
you to know who he was.”
    “I’m afraid I do.”
    “As you know, I don’t know his real name. The
arrangements were made in the name he uses here. We have his
address only.”
    “What was his name here?”
    “Sir Lancelot.”
    Gardiner Clough, thought Cobb. “That will
do,” he said.
    “You can’t think a gentleman had anything to
do with this?”
    “Tell me, were the other two Cavaliers here
last night?”
    Something like panic flitted across Madame’s
face. “They were.”
    “What time did they leave?”
    In a voice just above a whisper, she replied,
“Just past midnight.”
    Cobb reached for his coat and pulled the
white scarf from his pocket. “Do you recognize this?”
    Madame looked at the scarf. “Many gentlemen
have silk scarves like that,” she said.
    “But do they have a ‘P’ on them?” Cobb said,
flashing the monogram.
    “I don’t know what you’re getting at!”
    “I’m thinkin’ that ‘P’ could stand fer Pugh,
the real name of Sir Gawain.”
    Madame looked as if she wished to clamp both
hands over her ears. “My gentlemen are gentlemen!” she cried, much
exercised. “Not cutthroats!”
    “I picked up this scarf not two blocks from
where we found the body.”
    “Then you’ll have to ask the owner your
questions, won’t you?”
    “I’ll do that, ma’am. Thanks fer the
coffee.”
    “When can we have the body?” Madame asked. “I
figure on burying Sarie properly, seeing as she had no real mom or
dad.”
    “Later today, I imagine. As soon as Doc
Withers gets through examin’ it.”
    Madame LaFrance nodded, then turned to stare
at the fire. Cobb let himself out.
    ***
    Cobb knocked on the front door of banker
Pugh’s residence. Smithers answered it.
    “The tradesman’s entrance is around back,” he
said, nose in the air.
    “I’m a detective with the police,” Cobb said,
liking the sound of that phrase.
    “You have to use the rear entrance.”
    “What I haveta do is speak with Mr. Pugh –
immediately. On police business. Is he in?”
    “I’ll inquire,” Smithers said. Then as if he
couldn’t help himself he added, “Sir.”
    Smithers left Cobb cooling his heels for a
good five minutes. He returned and said stiffly, “The master’s in
the library, and he has graciously agreed to see you.”
    Cobb followed Smithers and eventually arrived
in said library. Pugh was standing by one of the shelves, fingering
a leather-bound tome.
    “Well, Constable, what is it this time?” he
said, his eye still on the book.
    “There’s been another murder, sir.”
    Pugh put the book down. “What do you mean, another murder?”
    “Another young woman, sir. Sarie Hickson.
Found not too far from the first one. Had her throat slashed. Bled
to death.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that, but what has it got
to do with me?”
    “You were in Devil’s Acre last night. At
Madame LaFrance’s.”
    “I don’t know how you found that out, but
it’s none of your business. And I trust you’ll keep that
information to yourself.”
    Ah, yes, Cobb thought. The wife was not to
know. “But you were there and left about midnight.”
    “I have no idea what time I left.”
    “Madame LaFrance says it was midnight.”
    “Then that’s the time I left, isn’t it? I
hope you aren’t playing games with me. I am not amused by your
interrogations.”
    “Did you go straight home?”
    “On my usual route, yes.”
    Cobb withdrew the silk scarf. “Is this yours,
sir?”
    Pugh looked startled. He came across the room
and took the scarf in his hands. “I have half a dozen white silk
scarves, Constable. So has every gentleman in town.”
    “But notice the monogram on this one.”
    Pugh looked at the capital “P.” He did not
flinch. “None of my scarves is monogrammed. This cannot be
mine.”
    “Then you will not refuse when I ask you