“Well, it would me!” said the Sergeant suddenly. “Not when he knew you were on the case, sir! He wouldn't have taken any chances once he'd seen you.”
Hemingway regarded him in some amusement. “Now, come on, my lad, what do you want to borrow?” he demanded.
The Sergeant grinned, but stuck to his guns. “Look here, sir, I was with you on Sunday evening, when you met him for the first time, in the Red Lion! Do you remember I didn't have to tell him who you were, because he recognised you straight off? Talked about a case you'd been on. Well, it was plain enough that he had a pretty fair idea of what he was up against! I could tell from the way he spoke that he knew the Yard had sent down one of their best men.”
“What do you mean, one of their best men?” interrupted Hemingway.
The Colonel laughed. “Spare the Chief Inspector's blushes, Carsethorn! But he may easily be right, Hemingway. Since Plenmeller hadn't an alibi, he must have faced the possibility of having his house searched. But if you don't think he buried the gun, what do you imagine he could have done with it?”
“Well, looking at it from the psychological angle, sir, I should say he'd go in for something a bit more classy.”
“Railway cloakroom?”
Hemingway shook his head. “Too hackneyed for him. Besides, he might expect it to be one of the first places I'd check up on, if ever I got on to the real weapon. If this were London, I should want to know if he rented a safe deposit, but I don't suppose you've got any here, have you?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Ah, well! I daresay it would have been a bit too obvious anyway,” said Hemingway philosophically. “He's probably put it somewhere I should never think of looking for it, which means that I shall have to rely more than I like on circumstantial evidence, or read all the books he's written, on the chance that he's used the idea before.”
The Sergeant, who had been thinking profoundly, said abruptly: “You know what, sir? Mr. Plenmeller ought to have handed in his brother's guns as soon as he was dead. It's illegal for him to keep them. I don't mean it's a thing we should make a fuss about, in the circumstances, because very likely he isn't well-up in the regulations, and he may think that if the licence for them hasn't run out, which it hasn't, it's all right for him to hang on to them. How would it be if I was to send one of our chaps out to call on him, like it was a routine-job? Just a uniformed constable, sent to explain that all this business has brought it to the attention of the police that the late Mr. Plenmeller's guns were never handed in, and that they must be. He can have a list of them, and check it over with Mr. Gavin Plenmeller. What's Mr. Plenmeller going to do then?”
“Hand over the guns in the cabinet, and deny all knowledge of the Colt,” answered Hemingway promptly.
“If he did that, it would look pretty suspicious, wouldn't it, sir?”
“It would, but you'd never prove he was lying. From what I've seen of Mr. Gavin Plenmeller, I wouldn't envy your uniformed constable his job, either. He'd find Gavin all readiness to oblige, and he could think himself lucky if he got away without having had to help turn out every chest and cupboard trunk in the house in an attempt to find the gun. And all he'd have achieved at the end would be to have put Plenmeller wise to what I'm up to. No, thanks! I'd as soon that gentleman went on thinking he's fooled me until I'm ready to put handcuffs on him. You never know: he might take it into his head I'd look well on a mortuary-slab.”
“He wouldn't dare do that!” said the Sergeant, grinning broadly.
“Oh, wouldn't he? Seems to me that if he thinks I'm the original Sherlock Holmes it's about the best thing he could do! It's a pity I'm not, because if I were I daresay I should have deduced by this time where I ought to look for that Colt. As it is, I shall have to work on the evidence I've got.”
“Look here!” said the Colonel, a little uneasily. “What you've been saying is extraordinarily plausible, but aren't we going too fast? We're all three of us talking as though there were no doubt Gavin murdered Warrenby!”
“There isn't, sir,” said Hemingway calmly.
Chapter Eighteen
This pronouncement made the Colonel look searchingly at him. “What makes you so confident?” he asked.
“Flair,” replied Hemingway, without a moment's hesitation.
“Eh?” said the Sergeant.
“The Chief Inspector means—er—intuition,” explained the Colonel. “Well, Hemingway, you know your own business best. What's the next move?”
“I want Sergeant Carsethorn to do a bit of investigation for me, if you don't mind, sir.”
“Very happy to, I'm sure!” said the gratified Sergeant.
“It'll be better if you do it,” exclaimed Hemingway. “You know the party concerned, and you've already questioned him once. You can say you forgot to make a note of what he said, or any other lie you fancy: we don't want him to spread it all over the village that you've been asking searching questions about Gavin Plenmeller.”
“You can trust me, sir!” the Sergeant assured him. “But who is it?”
“I don't think you ever told me his name. But I seem to remember that when you were describing the dramatis personae to me, in this very room, when I first came down here, you spoke of some old boy who's got a cottage opposite the entrance to Wood Lane.”
“That's right, sir: George Rugby.”
“Rugby! Then you did mention the name, because that's brought it back to me. My memory's not as good as it used to be,” said Hemingway, shaking his head over this lapse.
“Too bad, sir!” said the Sergeant, once more on the broad grin. “Still, it's good enough to be going on with! What do you want me to find out from Rugby?”
“Didn't you tell me he'd seen Mrs. Cliburn and Plenmeller coming away from The Cedars on Saturday evening? You were trying to find out if either of them did anything suspicious, but neither of them did, and neither of them was carrying anything that might have contained a rifle, which were the two points we happened to be concentrating at the time. The really important point escaped you. Now, don't take on about it! It escaped me too—which was probably because you were talking so much I never got time to think,” he added, as the Sergeant's face brightened again. “What I want to know now is, which came down the lane first? Mrs. Cliburn, or Mr. Plenmeller?”
“My Gawd!” exclaimed the Sergeant involuntarily. He cast a deprecating look at the Chief Constable, and said: “Beg your pardon, sir! But he's quite right: I did miss that, and I oughtn't to have. By the time I got round to making enquiries in the village, I'd interviewed so many people—still, it's no excuse! I didn't suspect anyone in particular, and what with old Rugby being one of those who take half an hour to tell you a simple story, and me taking it for granted he'd seen Mr. Plenmeller before he saw Mrs. Cliburn, I properly slipped up.” He glanced at his watch. “I'd like to go out to Thornden right now, sir, if you've no objection. The police-station is only two doors off Rugby's cottage, so I can pretend I've got business with Hobkirk; and if Rugby's sitting outside, which he probably will be on an evening like this, it'll be natural enough for me to stop and pass the time of day with him—supposing anyone should happen to be watching what I'm up to.”
“All right,” said the Colonel. “But you'll have to be careful not to let Rugby smell a rat, Carsethorn!”