The Chief Constable’s nod gave acquiescence to this, and he waited for Flamborough to continue.
"I’ve hunted for more blood-traces about the house; and I’ve found two or three small ones—a track leading from the room to the front door. There was less blood than I expected, though."
He produced a blood-soaked handkerchief.
"This was picked up near the corner of Lauderdale Avenue, sir, this morning after the fog cleared away. It has an H in one corner. You remember we found no handkerchief on Hassendean’s body. Evidently he was using this one to staunch his wounds, and he probably let it drop out of the car at the place where it was found. The doctor said there might be very little external bleeding, you remember; and the handkerchief’s mopped up a fair amount of what happened to ooze out."
Sir Clinton again acquiesced, and the Inspector proceeded.
"I’ve taken the finger-prints from all three bodies, sir. They’re filed for reference, if need be. And I’ve had a good look at that side-window at the bungalow. There’s no doubt that someone must have been standing there; but the traces are so poor that nothing can be done in the way of a permanent record.
"One can’t even see the shape of the man’s boot, let alone any fine details."
"Anything more?" Sir Clinton inquired. "You seem to have been fairly putting your back into it."
Flamborough’s face showed his appreciation of the compliment implied in the words.
"I’ve drafted an advertisement—worded it very cautiously of course—asking Mr. Justice to favour us with some further information, if he has any in stock. That’s been sent off already; it’ll be in the Evening Observer to-night, and in both the morning papers tomorrow."
"Good! Though I shouldn’t get too optimistic over the results, if I were you, Inspector."
Flamborough assented to this. Putting his hand into his breast pocket he produced a paper.
"Then I’ve got a report from Detective-Sergeant Yarrow. I sent him down to the G.P.O. to find out about Mr. Justice’s telegram. It’s impossible to get a description of the sender, sir. The telegram wasn’t handed in over the counter: it was dropped into a pillar box in the suburbs in a plain envelope, along with the telegraph fee; and when it was taken to the G.P.O. they simply telegraphed it to our local office round the corner."
"H’m!" said Sir Clinton. "There doesn’t seem much likelihood of your advertisement catching much, then. Mr. Justice is obviously a shy bird."
"He is indeed, sir, as you’ll see in a moment. But I’ll finish Yarrow’s report first, if you don’t mind. When he heard this story at the G.P.O., he asked for the postman who had brought in the envelope and questioned him. It appears the thing was dropped into the pillar-box at the corner of Hill Street and Prince’s Street. That’s nowhere near the Lizardbridge Road, you remember—quite on the other side of the town."
"Five miles at least from the bungalow," Sir Clinton confirmed. "Yes, go on, Inspector."
"The postman made his collection, which included this envelope, at 7 a.m. this morning. The previous collection from the same box was made at 8 p.m. last night, Yarrow elicited."
"Then all we really know is that the thing was dropped into the box between 8 p.m. and 7 a.m."
"Yes, sir. Yarrow secured the original telegram form," Flamborough continued with a glance at the paper in his hand. "The envelope had been torn open carelessly and dropped into a waste-basket; but Yarrow succeeded in getting hold of it also. There’s no doubt about its identity, sir. Yarrow ascertained through whose hands the envelope and the enclosure had passed while they were in charge of the Post Office; and he persuaded all these people to let him have their finger-prints, which he took himself on the spot. He then brought all his material back here and had the envelope and its enclosure examined for finger-prints; and the two documents were photographed after the prints had been brought up on them with a powder."
"And they found nothing helpful, I suppose?"
"Nothing, so far, sir. Every print that came out belonged to the postman or the sorter, or the telegraphist. There wasn’t one of them that could belong to Mr. Justice."
"I told you he was a shy bird, Inspector."
The Inspector put his paper down on the desk before Sir Clinton.
"He’s all that, sir. He hasn’t even given us a scrap of his handwriting."
The Chief Constable leaned forward and examined the document. It was an ordinary telegram despatch form, but the message: "Try hassendean bungalow lizardbridge road justice," had been constructed by gumming isolated letters and groups of letters on to the paper. No handwriting of any sort had been used.
Sir Clinton scanned the type for a moment, running his eye over the official printed directions on the form as well.
"He’s simply cut his letters out of another telegram blank, apparently?"
"Yes, sir."
"Rather ingenious, that, since it leaves absolutely no chance of identification. It’s useless to begin inquiring where a telegraphic blank came from, even if one could identify the particular sheet that he’s been using. He’s evidently got one of these rare minds than can see the obvious and turn it to account. I’d like to meet Mr. Justice."
"Well, sir, it certainly doesn’t leave much to take hold of, does it? Yarrow’s done his best; and I don’t see how he could have done more. But the result’s just a blank end."
Sir Clinton looked at his watch, took out his case and offered the Inspector a cigarette.
"Sit down, Inspector. We’re talking unofficially now, you’ll note. I think we might do worse than clear the decks in this business as far as possible before we go any further. It may save time in the end."
Inspector Flamborough thought he saw a trap in front of him.
"I’d like to hear what you think of it, sir."
The Chief Constable’s smile showed that he understood what was passing in Flamborough’s mind.
"I’d hate to ask a man to do something I didn’t dare to do myself," he said, with a faint twinkle in his eye. "So I’ll put my cards on the table for you to look at. If the spirit moves you, Inspector, you can do the same when your turn comes."
The Inspector’s smile broadened into something like a grin.
"Very good, sir. I understand that it’s purely unofficial."
"On the face of it," Sir Clinton began, "two people got their deaths at the bungalow last night. Young Hassendean didn’t actually die there, of course, but the shooting took place there."
Flamborough refrained from interrupting, but gave a nod of agreement.
"Deaths by violence fall under three heads, I think," the Chief Constable pursued—"accident, suicide, and homicide, including murder. Now at the bungalow you had two people put to death, and in each case the death must have been due to one or other of these three causes. Ever do permutations and combinations at school, Inspector?"
"No, sir," Flamborough confessed, rather doubtfully.
"Well, taking the possible ways of two people dying one or other of three different deaths, there are nine different arrangements. We’ll write them down."
He drew a sheet of paper towards him, scribbled on it for a moment or two, and then slid it across the table towards the Inspector. Flamborough bent over and read as follows:
"Now, since in that table we’ve got every possible arrangement which theoretically could occur," Sir Clinton continued, "the truth must lie somewhere within the four corners of it."
"Yes, somewhere," said Flamborough in an almost scornful tone.