Our visitor shrugged spreading his broad, strong hands. "Search me, Mr. Holmes. Why would he wish to do in any of his guests?"

"Did you offend him?
"I've never met the man before yesterday."
"What about your family? Had your father any dealings with them?"

The American hesitated for a second. Then he said with a ringing laugh, "Dad's poor but proud, sir."

Holmes shot him a glance. "Surely not 'poor', Mr. Amberson. Your father is one of the cattle and rail barons of America. You atteneded the finest schools. The programme of your concert at the Albert Hall summarised you curriculum vitae."

The young man's smile held fast, but his hithertoo steady brown eyes wavered.

"It depends on your definition of 'poor', Mr. Holmes. My dad does owns stock: live and the kind that go with 'bonds' in several rail, steel, and shipping companies.

"But I'm the third son, the eighth of thirteen children. My dad's third wife played mud pies with my eldest stepsister. His fourth is even younger.

"And I'm a disappointment to him, gentlemen. I'm a successful musician, yet in his eyes, I'm not a man. If I was out on the range or down in the mine, or even clerking in a bank, I'd be doing man's labour. I reflect badly on his manhood, and he resents it."

The young man spoke those bitter words through smiling lips, yet he was indeed hurt. I could not help but mourn for him.

Amberson rubbed his hands over his knees as if to rub off his troubled thoughts. "I'm more concerned about my future than you need be about my past, Mr Holmes. What will you do about my murderous host?"

Holmes gave back smile for smile, but his voice seemed censorious. "I am not in hast to name Mr. Eideard a multiple murderer on the evidence of one cigar. Mlle. Lacroix died of a bullet wound. Could a man crippled by arthritis raise, aim and fire a gun with the swiftness, the accuracy, and the silence to hit her in the back?"

Amberson glared at my friend, then looked sheepish. "You're right to reprove me for selfishness, Mr. Holmes. Two women and a man lie dead, and I'm still breathing. But I want to keep on breathing. We've got to catch this varmint before he strikes again."

Holmes picked up the cigar and held it out to him. "Did Mr. Eideard offer you this or was it left in you bedroom as a token of hospitality?"

"If it was left in my room, sir, I would have brought you the box. The old man geve me the cigar himself. In fact, he pressed me to accept it."

Holmes leaned forward, losing his languid air. "He pressed you?"

"Yeah." Amberson stroked his chin with his long fingers meditatively. "That's how it struck me. I prefer my own cigars, but when we met in his study, he insisted that I take one of his. I figured a guest can't politely refuse a gift from his host, especially when that host holds the strings of a very handsome purse the guest hopes to win."

"Why did you not smoke your cigar at the time?" I asked.

"Because he didn't smoke his, sir. I wasn't going to smoke before my host in his own house."

Our visitor looked troubled. "Mr Eideard seemed to act pretty strange. He was brusque when we shook hands. 'So you got here at last,' he said. 'Why didn't you come with the other vultures?' He told me he'd be obliged if I didn't wear my headgear while in his house, since he was not a 'hog breeder'."

Amberson gave his western hat a fond glance. "It may not be the London style, but it's mine. Every performer has a gimmick. An opera diva will claim the Tsar of Russia as her lover, just to get people to listen to her. I am what I am, an American cowboy from Wyoming who can play Beethoven well enough that people who have heard the best play will pay to hear me. Just because Dad owns the ranch doesn't make it less true."

"Well," he continued. "Eideard suddenly seemed to remember his manners and, by way of an apology, insisted that I accept the cigar he took from his box. Then he became irritable once more and ordered me off to my room."

Holmes regarded him shrewdly. "Doctor Watson offered me his observation about the man and his study. I'd be interested to hear your views."

Amberson readily told him. "I was initially offended by the old man's manner, but I put it down to his finding himself the host of a murder hunt instead of a musical competition.

"As for the room, I don't see how anyone could call it that. No books. No scores, or instruments. And he's reputed to be a music lover. Not even an Edison phonograph. My dad's no musician, but he has a fine machine, and he listens to Caruso singing every night he's home. It doesn't figure, Mr. Holmes.

"And no pictures or photographs. Nothing that lets on who the man is."

The young man nodded to the cigar in Holmes's hand.

"And then there's that. Frankly, sir. He gives me the shivers. I'll go back if I can help you nab him; but I don't want to. What if he gets me on his next try?"

Proceed to Part Seven