The Muramasa Sword
As the door closed behind Michael Clifton, the Chief Constable turned
to the Inspector.
“Now we can get to business, Inspector. Let’s have a look round the
place at leisure, and perhaps the surgeon will turn up before we reach
the body itself.”
Followed by Armadale, he stepped over to the bay containing the corpse
of Foss and began methodically to inspect the surroundings.
“This must have been the case that Marden slipped against when he cut
his hand,” the Inspector pointed out. “There’s a big hole in the glass
and some blood on the broken edges of the gap.”
“Oh, yes, there’s blood enough to suit most people,” Sir Clinton
admitted, with a glance towards the shattered case. But he seemed less
interested in the glass than in the floor surface; for he moved slowly
to and fro, evidently trying to place himself so that the sunlight
from the window was reflected up to him from the parquet. After a
moment or two, he seemed satisfied.
“That part of Marden’s story seems true enough. He did slip here. If
you come across, you’ll see a line where the polish of the parquet has
been taken off by some hard part of his shoe. You won’t be able to
spot it unless you make a mirror of the floor.”
The Inspector in his turn moved over and satisfied himself of the
existence of the faint mark.
“That confirms part of his story,” he admitted, grudgingly. “There’s a
lot of blood about, quite apart from the stuff from the body. One
might make something out of that.”
“Suppose we try,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Assume that he cut his hand
here on the glass. He’d be all asprawl on the floor; and the first
thing he’d do would be to put his hands down to help himself up. That
would account for these biggish patches here, under the case. Then a
foot or so away you see those round marks of droplets with tiny
splashes radiating from them with a fair regularity all round. These
must have been made by drops falling from his hand while he stood
still—no doubt while he was feeling with the other hand for his
handkerchief to stanch the bleeding.”
The Inspector indicated his agreement.
“After he’d got it fixed up, one might expect him to go over and look
at Foss. He’d gone down on the floor, you remember, while he was
hurrying to Foss’s assistance.”
“There’s no sign of that,” Armadale hastened to point out. “I can’t
see any blood-drops round about the body.”
“Oh, don’t be in too much of a hurry, Inspector. Perhaps they fell in
the pool of Foss’s own blood or, more probably, his handkerchief
soaked up any blood that flowed just then.”
Sir Clinton, still with his eyes on the ground, began to cast about in
search of further traces.
“Ah, here are a couple of drops at the end of the bay. Have a look at
them, Inspector.”
Armadale knelt down and examined the clots.
“Made on his way to the door, probably,” he suggested.
“They might have been, if he was swinging his arms as one does when
one walks freely; but one doesn’t usually swing the arm when there’s a
fresh wound in the hand, I think. These aren’t round blobs like the
others; they’re elongated, and all the splashing from them is at one
end—the end towards the safe. His hand, when they were made, was
moving towards the safe’s bay, whatever his body was doing.”
Sir Clinton made a rough measurement of the distance between the two
drops.
“If they’d been nearer together or further apart, then each of them
might have been made while his arm was going backwards in its natural
swing while he was walking towards the door. But the distance between
them won’t fit that. You’ll see at once if you try walking over the
ground yourself, Inspector; for you’re just about Marden’s height and
your stride must be nearly the same as his.”
“He said something about going to the safe and trying the handle,” the
Inspector admitted, grudgingly. “So far, his tale’s got some support.”
Sir Clinton smiled covertly at Armadale’s obvious desire to pick holes
in the valet’s narrative.
“Well, let’s find out how it happened,” Sir Clinton suggested. “He
evidently passed this bay and went on towards the next one, where the
safe is. We’ll follow his example.”
They turned the corner of the show-case and stepped over to the safe
door.
“There’s a trace of blood on the handle, true enough,” the Inspector
admitted. “But I’m not sure he told the truth about why he came to the
safe.”
Sir Clinton inspected the smear of blood on the handle, but he seemed
to attach very little importance to it.
“I suppose one mustn’t jump to conclusions and assume that
everything’s all above-board,” he conceded. “But even if we keep open
minds, wouldn’t it be the most natural thing in the world for Marden
to try the safe door? Remember what had happened according to his
story. Mr. Chacewater was in the room, for Marden saw him with his own
eyes. Mr. Chacewater turned the corner of a bay—the one next this; and
then Marden lost him for good. If you’d been in Marden’s place,
wouldn’t you have searched about, and then, finding no trace of the
missing man, wouldn’t you have jumped to the conclusion that he might
be hidden in the safe? And wouldn’t you have given the handle a pull,
just to make sure the safe was really locked and that Mr. Chacewater
wasn’t hiding inside it?”
“I suppose so,” conceded the Inspector, evidently dissatisfied.
“I expect his tale isn’t complete, of course. He could hardly give
every detail. It would be a bit suspicious if he had, I think. If his
tale had been absolutely complete in every detail, I’d be inclined to
suspect a previously prepared recitation rather than an account of the
facts. In a case of this sort, one could hardly expect a water-tight
narrative, could one?”
He continued his examination of the floor; but there seemed to be no
other blood-stains of any importance.
“Now let’s have a glance at the body,” he suggested. “We needn’t shift
it till the surgeon comes; but we can see what’s to be seen without
altering its position in the meanwhile.”
The Inspector was the first to reach the spot, and as he knelt down
beside the corpse he gave an exclamation of surprise.
“Here’s an automatic pistol, sir. It’s lying almost under the body,
but I can see the muzzle. It looks like a .38 calibre.”
“Leave it there. We’ll get at it later.”
Sir Clinton examined the body itself. The cause of death seemed
obvious enough, for the weapon still remained in the wound. A glance
at it set the Chief Constable’s eye ranging over the museum cases. He
retreated from the bay and searched for a time until he found what he
was looking for: an empty sheath in an unlocked case. Without touching
the sheath, he scanned the Japanese inscription on its surface.
“So that’s the thing?”
The Inspector had come across to his side and stood looking at the
sheath.
“So the thing’s one of the specimens?” he asked.
“Yes. Don’t touch it, Inspector. We may as well see whose
finger-prints are on it, though it’s quite on the cards that it’s been
handled by other people lately as well as the murderer. It’s rather a
show specimen, you see—one of Muramasa’s making. This was the sword
they were discussing when they were out on the terrace. Muramasa’s
weapons have the name of being unlucky; and this one seems to bear out
the legend.”
The Inspector looked at the sheath with apparent care, but his
thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.
“Nobody could have got away from here through the windows,” he
observed, rather irrelevantly. “They’re all barred outside, and the
catches are fast on the sashes.”
Evidently Sir Clinton had noticed this in the course of his previous
search, for he gave a tacit assent to the Inspector’s statement
without even glancing up at the windows.
“Here are the sheets of rubbing-paper that Foss was using,” the
Inspector went on, picking them up as he spoke. “They’ll have his
finger-prints on them, so I’ll stow them away. We might need them. One
never knows.”
“We can get actual prints from the body if we need them,” Sir Clinton
pointed out. “You don’t suppose it’s a suicide case, do you?”
The Inspector was too wary to throw himself open to attack. He
contented himself with putting the papers away carefully in his
pocket-book.
“Finger-prints will be useful, though,” Sir Clinton went on. “At the
earliest possible moment, Inspector, I want you to get prints from the
fingers of every one in the house. Start with Miss Chacewater. She’ll
agree to let you take hers without any trouble; and after that you can
go on to Mr. Clifton and so down the scale. We’ve no authority for
insisting, of course; but you can make a note if any one objects. I
expect you’ll get the lot without difficulty.”
At this moment Mold opened the door to admit the police surgeon; and
Sir Clinton broke off in order to explain the state of affairs to him.
Dr. Greenlaw was a business-like person who wasted no time. While Sir
Clinton was speaking, he knelt down beside the corpse and made a
cursory examination of it. When he rose to his feet again, he seemed
satisfied.
“That sword appears to have entered the thorax between the fifth and
sixth ribs,” he pointed out. “It’s pierced the left lung, evidently;
you notice the blood-foam on his lips? And most probably it’s
penetrated right into the heart as well. It looks as if it had; but of
course I’ll need to carry out a P.M. before I can give you exact
details.”
“I suppose we can take out the sword before we shift the body?” asked
the Inspector. “We want to examine it before any one else touches it.”
“Certainly,” Greenlaw replied. “You can see for yourselves what
happened. He was struck from the front by a right-handed man—a fairly
heavy blow, I should judge from the depth to which that sword has
buried itself. There’s no sign of a twist in the wound, which looks as
though he went down under it at once. Quite possibly the base of the
skull may have been fractured on the floor by the force of his fall.
We’ll see when we come to the P.M. But in any case that wound alone
would be quite sufficient to cause almost immediate death. It’s a
blade almost as broad as a bayonet, as you can see. I’ll go into the
whole thing carefully when I can make a thorough examination. You’ll
have him sent down to the mortuary, of course?”
“As soon as we’ve finished our work here.”
“Good. I’ll make a note or two now, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll leave
you to get on. As things are, there’s nothing there which you couldn’t
see for yourselves.”
He took out a pocket-book and began to jot down his notes.
“Just a moment, doctor,” Sir Clinton interposed. “I’ve got a patient
for you here. I’d like you to have a look at his hand and bandage up
some cuts before you go.”
Greenlaw nodded in agreement and went on with his note-taking.
“Now, Inspector,” Sir Clinton continued, “we’d better get this sword
out. Be sure to take all the care you can not to rub out any
finger-prints.”
Armadale obeyed, and after some cautious manœuvres he succeeded in
withdrawing the weapon, which he laid carefully on the top of the
central show-case.
“Now we can have a look at him,” Sir Clinton said. “You don’t mind our
shifting the position of the body, doctor?”
Greenlaw closed his note-book and prepared to assist them if
necessary.
“Begin with the contents of his pockets, Inspector,” Sir Clinton
suggested.
“The blade’s gone clean through his left breast pocket,” the Inspector
pointed out. He felt the outside of the pocket gingerly with his
fingers.
“Nothing there except his handkerchief, so far as I can feel. It’s all
soaked with his blood. I’ll leave that to the last. I want to keep my
hands clean while I go over the rest.”
He wiped his finger-tips carefully on his own handkerchief and
continued his search.
“Right-hand breast pocket: a note-case.”
He drew it out and handed it to Sir Clinton, who opened it and counted
the contents.
“Three hundred and fifty-seven pounds in notes,” he announced at
length. “That’s a fair sum to be carrying about with one. Ten visiting
cards: ‘J. B. Foss,’ with no address.”
He crossed over to the central case and put down the note-case
thoughtfully.
“The left-hand waistcoat pockets are saturated with blood,” Armadale
continued. “I’ll leave them over for the present. Top right-hand
waistcoat pocket, empty. Lower right-hand waistcoat pocket: a small
penknife and a tooth-pick. Not much blood here; he was lying slightly
on his left side and it must have flowed in that direction, I suppose.
Right-hand jacket pocket, outside: nothing. I’ll take the trousers
now. Right-hand pocket: key-ring and a purse.”
He handed them to Sir Clinton, who examined them in turn before
putting them on the central case.
“Only keys of suit-cases here,” the Chief Constable reported. “We
haven’t come across the latch-key of his flat, if you notice.”
He counted the contents of the purse.
“Eight and sixpence and one ten-shilling note.”
The Inspector proceeded with his examination.
“Here’s something funny! He’s got a smallish pocket over his hip, just
below the trouser button. That’s unusual. But it’s empty,” he added,
after an eager search.
“Let me look at that,” Sir Clinton demanded.
He stooped down and inspected the pocket closely, then stood up and
passed his hand across the corresponding spot on his own clothes. As
he did so, Armadale noticed a peculiar expression pass across the
Chief Constable’s face, as though some new idea had dawned upon him
and had cleared up a difficulty. But Sir Clinton divulged nothing of
what was passing in his mind.
“Make quite sure it’s empty,” he said.
Armadale turned the little pocket inside out.
“There’s nothing there,” he pointed out. “It wouldn’t hold much—it’s
hardly bigger than a ticket pocket.”
He looked at the pocket again, evidently puzzled by the importance
which the Chief Constable attached to it.
“It’s a silly place to have a pocket,” he said at last. “It’s not like
the old-fashioned fob. That was kept tight shut by the pressure of
your body. This thing’s mouth is loose and it’s simply a gift to a
pickpocket.”
“I think we’ll probably find another of the same kind on the other
side,” Sir Clinton contented himself with saying. “Let’s get on with
the rest of them.”
Armadale turned the body slightly and put his hand into the hip
pocket.
“It’s empty, too,” he announced. “It’s a very loose pocket with no
flap on it. I expect he carried his pistol there and he had the pocket
built for easy handling of his gun.”
He looked at the .38 automatic which had been disclosed as he turned
the body.
“That wouldn’t have fitted into the little pocket,” he pointed out.
“The pistol’s far too big for the opening.”
Sir Clinton nodded his agreement with this view.
“He didn’t use it for his pistol. Now, the left-hand pockets, please.
You can wash your hands as soon as you’ve gone through them.”
Inspector Armadale stolidly continued his investigation.
“Left-hand breast pocket in jacket,” he announced. “Nothing but his
handkerchief, saturated with blood.”
He handed it to Sir Clinton, who inspected it carefully before putting
it with the rest of the collection.
“No marks on it, either initials or laundry-mark,” he said. “Evidently
been bought and used without marking.”
“Ticket pocket, empty,” the Inspector went on, withdrawing his fingers
from it. “Top left waistcoat pocket: a self-filling Swan pen and a
metal holder for same. Lower left waistcoat pocket: an amber
cigarette-holder. Not much to go on there.”
He turned to the trousers.
“Left-hand trouser pocket: five coppers.”
Handing them over, he proceeded.
“Your notion’s quite right, sir. There’s another of these side pockets
here. But it’s empty like the other one.”
Instead of replying, Sir Clinton gingerly picked up the automatic
pistol from the floor and placed it along with the other objects on
the central case.
“You’d better examine that for finger-prints, Inspector,” he
suggested. “I leave you to make the arrangements about taking the body
down to the mortuary. The sooner the better. Now, doctor, we’ll get
your patient for you, if the Inspector will be good enough to bring
him to the lavatory near by, where you can get his wounds patched up.”
Inspector Armadale soon produced Marden, who seemed rather surprised
at being summoned again.
“It’s all right, Marden,” Sir Clinton assured him. “It merely struck
me that when there was a doctor on the premises you ought to have
these cuts of yours properly fixed up.”
Dr. Greenlaw speedily removed the temporary bandage which the valet
had improvised.
“I’ll need to put some stitches into this,” he said, as the extent of
the injury became evident. “Luckily these glass cuts are clean-edged.
You’ll hardly see the scar after a time.”
Sir Clinton inspected the wounds sympathetically.
“You’ve made a bit of a mess of your hand, Marden,” he commented.
“It’s just as well I thought of getting Dr. Greenlaw to look after
you.”
Marden seemed to have been looking for an opening.
“I’m glad you called me up again, sir,” he explained. “I’ve just
thought of two other points about this affair.”
“Yes?”
While the doctor was cleaning and disinfecting the wounds, Marden
addressed himself to the Chief Constable.
“I forgot to say, sir, that when I got back to the house I found Mr.
Foss’s car waiting for him. I said a word or two to the chauffeur as I
passed. It only struck me afterwards that this might be important. I
forgot about it at the time.”
“Quite right to tell us,” Sir Clinton confirmed.
“The second thing was what the chauffeur told me. He’d been ordered to
wait for Mr. Foss, it seems; and he got the idea that Mr. Foss was
leaving Ravensthorpe this afternoon for good. I was surprised by that;
for I’d heard nothing about it from Mr. Foss.”
He flinched slightly with the smart of his wounds, as Greenlaw washed
them carefully.
Sir Clinton seemed to be struck by a fresh idea.
“Before the doctor bandages you up, would you mind if we took your
finger-prints, Marden? I’m asking every one to let us take theirs, and
this seems to be the best chance we shall have of getting yours, you
see? Of course, if you object, I’ve no power to insist on it.”
“I’ve no objections, sir. Why should I have?”
“Then you might take impressions of the lot, Inspector,” Sir Clinton
suggested. “Don’t spend too much time over it. We must get the
bandages on this hand as quick as possible.”
Inspector Armadale hurried away for his outfit and soon set to work to
take the valet’s finger-prints. While he was thus engaged a fresh
suggestion seemed to occur to Sir Clinton.
“By the way, Marden, you have that parcel which Mr. Foss sent to the
post?”
“I can give you it in a moment, sir, once the doctor has finished with
my hand.”
“Very good. I’d like to see it.”
The Chief Constable waited patiently until Marden’s hand was
completely bandaged; then he dispatched the valet for the parcel. When
it was forthcoming, he dismissed Marden again. The doctor took his
leave, and Armadale was left alone with Sir Clinton.
“Now let’s see what Foss was sending off, Inspector.”
Cutting the string, Sir Clinton unwrapped the paper and disclosed a
small cardboard box. Inside on a layer of cotton-wool, was a
wrist-watch. Further search failed to bring to light any enclosed
note.
“I suppose he was sending it to be cleaned,” the Inspector hazarded.
“Probably he wrote a letter by the same post.”
“Let’s have a look at it, Inspector. Be careful not to mark it with
your fingers.”
Sir Clinton took the watch up and examined it closely.
“It looks fairly new to need repair.”
He held it to his ear.
“It’s going. Not much sign of damage there.”
“Perhaps it needed regulating,” Armadale suggested.
“Perhaps,” Sir Clinton’s tone was noncommittal. “Take a note of the
time as compared with your own watch, Inspector; and just check
whether it’s going fast or slow in a few hours. Try it for
finger-prints along with the rest of the stuff.”
He replaced it gently in its bed of cotton-wool and closed the box,
taking care not to finger the cardboard.
“Now, if you’ll send for the chauffeur, we may get something from
him.”
But the chauffeur proved a most unsatisfactory witness. He admitted
that Foss had ordered him to bring round the car at 3.15 and wait for
further orders; but he was unable to give any clear account of the
talk he had with his employer when the order was given.
“I can’t remember what he said exactly; but I got the notion he was
leaving here to-day. I’m dead sure of that; for I packed up my own
stuff and had it ready to go off at a moment’s notice. It’s on the
grid of the car now. I was so taken aback that I haven’t thought of
unpacking it.”
Sir Clinton could get nothing further out of the man, and he was
eventually dismissed.
“Now we’ll have a run over the late Mr. Foss’s goods,” the Chief
Constable proposed, when they had dismissed the chauffeur.
But the search of Foss’s bedroom yielded at first nothing of much
interest.
“This doesn’t look as if that chauffeur had been telling the truth,”
Armadale pointed out, when they found all Foss’s clothes arranged
quite normally in wardrobe and drawers. “Foss himself had made no
preparations for moving, that’s evident. I’ll see that chauffeur again
and go into the matter more carefully.”
“You might as well,” Sir Clinton concurred. “But I doubt if you’ll get
him to shift from his story. He seemed to be very clear about the main
point, though he was weak in details.”
They subjected all Foss’s belongings to a careful scrutiny.
“No name marked on any of the linen; no tags on any of the suits; no
labels inside the jacket pockets,” Inspector Armadale pointed out. “He
seems to have been very anxious not to advertise his identity. And no
papers of any sort. It looks a bit queer, doesn’t it?”
As he spoke, he noticed a small leather case standing in a corner.
“Hullo, here’s an attaché case. Perhaps his papers are in it.”
He crossed over and picked up the case, but as he did so an expression
of surprise crossed his face.
“This thing’s as heavy as lead! It must weigh ten or twelve pounds at
least!”
“It’s not an attaché case,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Look at the ends
of it.”
Armadale turned the case round in his hand. At the upper part of one
end the leather had been cut away, disclosing a small ebonite disc
rather more than an inch in diameter and pierced with a pattern of
tiny holes. At the opposite end of the case there were two small holes
side by side and a larger one above; and examination showed brass
sockets inside which seemed meant for the reception of plugs.
“You’d better get his keys, Inspector. Probably the key of this thing
will be on the ring.”
With his curiosity raised to an acute pitch, Armadale went off in
search of the key-ring; and was soon back again with it in his hand.
“Now we’ll see what it is,” he said, as he turned the key in the
case’s lock and pressed the opening spring.
The lifting of the lid disclosed a wooden casing fitted with a couple
of hinged doors, an open recess in which were two levers, and a hinged
metal plate, on which was an inscription. Armadale read it aloud
uncomprehendingly:
“‘Marconi Otophone. Inst. No. S/O 1164.’ What the deuce is this?”
Sir Clinton put out his hand and lifted the hinged metal plate,
disclosing below two wireless valves in their sockets.
“Some wireless gadget,” the Inspector ejaculated. “Now what could he
possibly have wanted with a thing like that?”
Sir Clinton examined the instrument with interest, then he closed the
case.
“We’ll take this along with us, Inspector.”
Then, with a sudden change of mind, he contradicted himself.
“No, we’ll leave it here for the present. That will be much better.”
Somewhat mystified by this change of intention, the Inspector agreed.
Sir Clinton’s manner did not invite questions.
“I think we had better see Miss Chacewater again. There are one or two
questions I’d like to put to her, Inspector; and you had better be
there.”
In a minute or two, Joan was found, with Michael Clifton in
attendance. Sir Clinton did not think it worth while to sit down.
“Just a couple of points I want to ask about. First of all, is there
any record of the combination which opens the lock of the safe in the
museum?”
Joan shook her head.
“Maurice was the only one of us who knew it. My father did leave a
note of it; but I remember that Maurice destroyed that. He specially
wished to keep it to himself.”
“Another point,” Sir Clinton went on. “Did Foss know, on the night of
the burglary, which of the rows contained the real medallions and
which row the replicas were in?”
Joan reflected for a moment or two before replying.
“He must have known. Maurice had shown him the things once at least,
if not oftener; and I know there was no secret as to which were the
real things and which were the counterfeits.”
Sir Clinton seemed satisfied with this information.
“One last thing,” he continued. “I suppose you could show me where
your brother keeps his correspondence. We must get hold of Kessock’s
address and notify him about Foss’s death; and there seems no way of
doing it as quick as this one. If the papers aren’t locked up, perhaps
I could see them now?”
It appeared that the letters were available and Sir Clinton turned
them over rapidly.
“Fifth Avenue? That’s satisfactory.”
He put the papers back in their place.
“There’s just one thing more. I’m going to put a constable on guard at
the door of the museum for a while—day and night for a day or two,
perhaps. You won’t mind?”
“Certainly not. Do as you wish.”
Sir Clinton acknowledged the permission. Then, as though struck by an
after-thought, he inquired:
“Have you Cecil’s address?”
Joan shook her head.
“He said he’d let me know where he was staying, but he hasn’t written.
Perhaps he hasn’t settled down yet. He may be staying at an hotel for
a day or two.”
“Please ring me up as soon as he sends word.”
Joan promised to do this, and Sir Clinton continued:
“By the way, Inspector Armadale wishes to take the finger-prints of
every one in the house. Would you mind setting an example and having
yours taken along with the rest? If you do it, then it will be easier
for us to get the others. They won’t be suspicious when they hear that
it’s a general inquisition.”
Both Joan and Michael consented without ado.
“The Inspector will be with you in a moment or two,” Sir Clinton said,
as he took his leave. “Just a word with you, Inspector.”
Armadale followed him from the room.
“Now, Inspector, there’s a lot for you to do yet. First of all, get
these finger-prints. Then telephone to London and get Kessock’s
business address. As soon as you get it, let me know.”
“But you got his address from the correspondence, sir, surely. It’s in
Fifth Avenue.”
“I want his other address—his office in New York, you understand?”
“His office will be shut by now, if you’re going to cable,” the
Inspector pointed out, thoughtlessly.
“No, it won’t. You forget that their time is some hours behind ours.
We’ll catch him in office hours if you hurry. Then when you’ve done
that, get Foss’s face photographed; and arrange for a constable and
reliefs to be posted at the museum door till further orders. The
museum door is to be left open and the light is to be left burning at
night, so that he can keep his eye on things.”
Inspector Armadale jotted some notes in his pocket-book. As he closed
this, he seemed to think of something.
“There’s just one thing, sir. You want to get into the safe? Couldn’t
we get the number of the lock combination from the makers? They must
know it.”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“Unfortunately the safe has no maker’s name-plate on it, Inspector. I
looked at the time we examined it. It’s a fairly old pattern, though,
I noticed; and if it hasn’t got a balanced fence arbour, I think I can
guarantee to find the combination of it with a little assistance.”
Armadale looked rather blank.
“I thought these things were too stiff to tackle,” he said.
Sir Clinton suppressed a smile.
“You ought to read Edgar Allan Poe, Inspector. ‘Human ingenuity cannot
concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve,’ was a dictum
of his. If I’m not mistaken about that safe, I think I could guarantee
to open it in less than ten minutes. The resources of science, and all
that, you know. But I think it would be better to wait a while and see
if Mr. Chacewater turns up to open it for us himself.”
“But perhaps Mr. Chacewater’s body is inside it now,” the Inspector
suggested. “There may have been a double murder, for all we know.”
“In that case, we shall find him when we open it,” Sir Clinton assured
him lightly. “If he’s inside, he’ll hardly be likely to shift his
quarters.”