"Then you think it’s a non-scientific murderer using scientific appliances so as to suggest that the crime was done by someone in the scientific line—Silverdale, I mean?"
Sir Clinton was silent for a moment or two, then he said thoughtfully:
"What I’m not sure about is whether it’s a pure bluff or a double bluff. It looks like one or the other."
The Inspector obviously had difficulty in interpreting this rather cryptic utterance. At last he saw his way through it.
"I think I see what you mean, sir. Suppose it’s not Silverdale that did the murder. Then somebody—knowing that this kind of tubing’s common in Silverdale’s laboratory—may have left it on purpose for us to find, so that we’d be bluffed into jumping to the conclusion—as I admit I did—that Silverdale did the trick. That would be a simple bluff. Or again, supposing it’s Silverdale who’s the murderer, then he may have left the tubing on purpose, because he’d say to himself that we’d never believe that he’d be such a fool as to chuck a thing like that down beside the body—and hence we’d pass him over in our suspicions. Is that it, sir?"
"It sounds devilish involved, as you put it, Inspector; but I have a sort of dim perception that you’ve grasped my meaning," Sir Clinton answered. "My own impression is simply that we musn’t let this tourniquet lead us too far, for fear we go completely astray. If we get on the right track, I’ve no doubt it’ll fit neatly enough to the rest of the evidence; but it’s not the sort of thing I’d care about staking a lot on by itself. Now suppose we come out of these flowery by-paths and get back to the main thoroughfare of the facts."
The Inspector refused to be damped by his superior. Indeed, he had the air of a player holding good cards, and not caring who knew it.
"It was hard frost last night, sir, as you’ll remember; so there were no foot-prints on the road, or anything of that sort. But the grass by the side of the ditch is fairly long; and when I examined it, it was clear enough that there hadn’t been any struggle on it. They may have struggled on the road, of course; but the grass was quite undisturbed."
"Then the body hadn’t been dragged off the road into the ditch? It must have been lifted and pitched in?"
"So I think, sir. The grass border between road and ditch is quite narrow—just room to stand on it comfortably. One could hoist a body over it without too much trouble."
"And from the look of the body you think it had been thrown in?"
"Yes, sir. It was huddled up anyhow in the ditch, just as it might have fallen if it had been dropped in with a thud."
"Single-handed business, then, you believe?"
"Well, sir, I think if two people had been handling him—one taking his shoulders and another taking his feet—he’d have fallen more tidily. He certainly looked as if he’s been bundled in anyhow. I’d put it down as a single-handed job from the look of it."
"I suppose you examined the pockets, and so forth?" Sir Clinton asked.
"Of course, sir. But there was nothing in them of any use to us."
The Inspector’s voice betrayed that he had something still in reserve. Now he brought it forward.
"I examined his hands, sir; and in the right one, I found something important. The hand was clenched, and when I got it open at last, this fell out."
He produced a button with a shred of cloth attached to it, which he laid on the desk before Sir Clinton. The Chief Constable picked it up, examined it closely, and then, pulling out a pocket magnifying glass, made a still more minute inspection.
"Very interesting, Inspector. What do you make of it?"
"Obviously it was torn off the murderer’s clothes during the struggle, sir. And I’ve seen something like it before. You see that canary-coloured stain on the bit of cloth and also on the threads that hold the button to the fabric?"
"Dyed with picric acid, by the look of it, I should say. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes, sir. And the pattern of the cloth’s another point."
"You mean it looks like a button torn off the old jacket that Silverdale was wearing, that day we saw him at the Croft-Thornton Institute—his laboratory coat?"
"That’s undoubtedly what it is, sir. I remember that stain perfectly. And as soon as I saw it, I remembered the pattern of the cloth."
"And your view is?"
"I think that when Silverdale set out to murder Whalley he was afraid that some blood from the face might get on to his coat. So he put on his old laboratory jacket. If it got spotted, he could destroy it and rouse no suspicions. It was only an old coat that he might think was worn out. Quite a different thing from destroying some of his ordinary clothes. That would have been suspicious. But an old coat—no one would wonder if he got rid of it and brought another one down to the laboratory to replace it."
"It sounds deuced plausible, Inspector, I must admit. But——"
"But what, sir?"
"Well," Sir Clinton answered thoughtfully, "it leaves us again with the choice between the single and the double bluff, you see, even if one goes no further with one’s inquiries."
The Inspector pondered over the point for a few seconds, but at the end of his cogitation he seemed unimpressed. Apparently, however, he thought it wise to change the subject.
"In any case, sir, I think Whalley’s part in the bungalow affair is pretty plain now. I told you he was the sort of fellow who was out for easy money, no matter how dirty it might be. By the way, he was the man who inquired about the number of that motor which he said knocked him spinning—an obvious try-on to get damages, although he wasn’t hurt at all. You can see he’d do anything to make money and save himself from honest work. If you remember that, it’s easy enough to see the part he played at the bungalow. He was the person you christened Peeping Tom."
"Anything further about him that you can think of, Inspector? I don’t say you’re wrong, of course."
"Well, sir, if Silverdale expected to take his wife in flagrante delicto, he’d need an independent witness, wouldn’t he? Possibly Whalley was the man he picked out for the work."
"Do you think he was the sort of witness that was wanted? I’m not so sure of his suitability myself."
"It wasn’t exactly a nice job, sir," the Inspector pointed out. "Silverdale would hardly care to take one of his close friends to inspect an affair of that sort. And of course a woman——"
He broke off suddenly, as though struck by a fresh idea. Sir Clinton ignored the last phrase of the Inspector.
"Assume that Whalley was the witness, then, what next?"
"Assume that Silverdale posted Whalley at the second window and went round to the first one—at the front. Then, to make the thing complete, he breaks in through the window and jumps into the room. Young Hassendean has his pistol and mistakes the state of affairs—thinks that Silverdale means to thrash him or worse. He pulls out his pistol and there’s a struggle for the possession of it. The pistol goes off accidentally, and the bullet hits Mrs. Silverdale in the head by pure chance. Then the struggle goes on, and in the course of it, young Hassendean gets shot twice over in the lung."
The Chief Constable looked at his subordinate with quite unaffected respect.
"It looks as if you’d come very near the truth there," he admitted. "Go on."
"The rest’s fairly obvious, if you grant what’s gone before. Whalley’s seen the whole affair from his post at the window. He sneaks off into the dark and gets out of Silverdale’s reach. If he hadn’t, then Silverdale would probably have shot him at sight to destroy the chance of evidence against him. But when Whalley has time to think things over, he sees he’s got a gold-mine in the business. If he can blackmail Silverdale, he’s got a steady income for life. But I expect he weakened and tried to play for safety. He blackmailed Silverdale; then he came to us, so that he could say he’d been to the police, meaning to give information. Then he went back to Silverdale, and in some way he let out that he’d given us a call. That would be enough for Silverdale. Whalley would have to go the way the maid went. And so he did."