Sir Clinton did not seem perturbed.
“Bring Mr Cecil, Mold,” he ordered, and locked the door again as the keeper went off on his fresh errand.
This task Mold completed in a very short time. Sir Clinton opened at his knock and Cecil Chacewater came into the museum. He was dressed as a Swiss admiral and behind him came Una Rainhill in the costume of Cleopatra.
Sir Clinton wasted no time in preliminaries.
“I’ve sent for you, Cecil, because I want to know exactly what part you played in this business to-night.”
Cecil Chacewater opened his eyes in astonishment.
“You seem to be a bit of a super-sleuth! How did you spot us so quickly?”
Quite obviously Cecil was not greatly perturbed at being found out, as Sir Clinton noted with a certain relief. So far as he was concerned, the thing had been only a prank.
“Tell me exactly what happened after you came in here before the lights went out,” the Chief Constable demanded in a curt tone.
Cecil glanced at Una. Sir Clinton caught the look.
“We know all about Miss Rainhill’s part in the affair,” he explained bluntly.
“Oh, in that case,” said Cecil, “there’s no particular reason why I should keep back anything. Una, Foxy, and I planned it between us. I take full responsibility for that. I wanted to upset this sale, if I could. I’m not ashamed of that.”
“I know all about that,” Sir Clinton pointed out, coldly. “What I wish to know is exactly what happened after you came in here to steal these medallions.”
Cecil seemed impressed by the Chief Constable’s tone.
“I’ll tell you, then. We’ve nothing to conceal. I came in here at about twenty to twelve and sauntered about the room, pretending to look at the cases as if I’d never seen them before. My part was to mark down Mold and prevent him interfering.”
Sir Clinton nodded to show that he knew all this.
“Rather before I expected it, the light went out. Oh, there was a shot fired just then. I didn’t understand that part of it, but I supposed that Foxy had brought a pistol with him and fired a blank cartridge just to add a touch of interest to the affair. It wasn’t on the bill of fare, so I imagine it must have been one of these last-minute improvements. Anyhow, I did my part of the business: jumped on Mold and held him while Foxy got away with the stuff. Then, when he’d had time to get away, I let Mold go and made a bee-line for the door myself. I could swear no one spotted me in the dark, and I was well mixed up in the mob before the lights went on again.”
“Did you pay particular attention to what Polegate was doing while you were busy with the keeper?”
“No. Mold gave me all I wanted in the way of trouble.”
“You’re sure it was Mold you got hold of? You didn’t make any mistake?”
Cecil reflected for a moment.
“I don’t see how I could have gripped the wrong man. I’d marked him down while the light was on.”
“Can you remember anything about sounds of breaking glass?”
Cecil pondered before replying.
“It seemed to me that there was a lot of glass-breaking—more than I’d expected. The light was hardly out before there was a smash and tinkle all over the place. Foxy must have got to work quicker than I’d allowed for. And I remember hearing quite a lot of hammering and smashing going on after that, as if he’d found it difficult to make a big enough hole in the glass of the case. I thought he’d bungled the business, and it was all I could do to keep my grip on Mold long enough to get the thing safely through.”
Sir Clinton dismissed that part of the subject. He turned to Una.
“Now, Miss Rainhill, I believe your part in the affair was to pull out the main switch of the house?”
“Yes,” Una admitted, looking rather surprised at the extent of his knowledge.
“Did you carry out your part of the arrangement punctually, or were you late in getting the current off?”
“I pulled out the switch to the very second. I had my hand on it and my eye on my wrist-watch; and when it came to 11.45 I jerked it out and the lights went off. I was absolutely right to a second, I’m sure.”
“And you thought Miss Rainhill had been a shade before her time, Cecil?”
“So it seemed to me. I hadn’t a chance of looking at my watch; and of course after the lights went off I couldn’t spare time to look.”
At this moment another knock came to the door and Foxy Clifford burst into the museum. Sir Clinton noticed that he was masquerading as a Harlequin.
“Heard you’d been asking for me, Sir Clinton,” he broke out as he came into the room. “Seems the keeper had been inquiring for me. So I came along as soon as I heard about it.”
He glanced inquisitively at Cecil and Una, as though wondering what they were doing there.
Sir Clinton wasted no words.
“The medallions, Mr Polegate, please.”
Foxy made a very good pretence of astonishment at the demand; but Cecil cut him short.
“You may as well hand them over, Foxy. They seem to know all about the joke.”
“Oh, they do, do they?” Foxy exclaimed. “They seem to have been mighty swift about it. That little joke’s gone astray, evidently.”
He seemed completely taken aback by the exposure.
“The medallions?” he repeated. “I’ll get ’em for you in a jiffy.”
He walked across to the show-case, fumbled for a moment at the flat base near one of the legs, and from below this he drew out three medallions.
“Stuck ’em there with plasticine as soon as I’d got ’em. After that anyone would have turned out my pockets if they’d wanted, see?”
Sir Clinton held out his hand and took the medallions from Foxy. For a moment or two he examined them, then he passed them to Cecil.
“Have you any way of telling easily whether these are the real things or the replicas?”
Cecil inspected them one by one with minute care.
“These are the real things,” he announced. “What else could they be?”
“You’ve no doubt about it?” questioned Sir Clinton.
“Not a bit,” Cecil assured him. “When Foxy made the replicas, my father had a tiny hole—just a dot—drilled in the edge of each electrotype so as to distinguish the real things from the sham. There are no holes here; so these are the real Leonardos.”
Sir Clinton swung round suddenly on Foxy.
“Now, Mr Polegate,” he said, sternly, “you’ve given a lot of trouble with this silly joke of yours. I’m not concerned with your taste in humour, or I might say a few things you wouldn’t care to hear. But you can repair the damage to some extent if you give me a frank account of your doings in here to-night. I want the whole story, please.”
Foxy was evidently completely taken aback by Sir Clinton’s tone.
“Come, we’re waiting. There’s no time to lose,” Sir Clinton said, curtly, as Foxy seemed to hesitate. Joan and the others showed by their faces that they could not quite understand the reason for the Chief Constable’s asperity.
“We planned that . . .”
“I know all about that,” said Sir Clinton, brusquely. “Begin at the point where you came in here at twenty to twelve or so.”
Foxy pulled himself together. The Chief Constable’s manner was not encouraging.
“I came in here as arranged, and worked my way over to the central case there—slowly, so as not to attract the keeper’s attention. One or two other people were hanging round it then, too. I remember noticing a chap in a white Pierrot costume alongside me. Suddenly there was a pistol-shot and the light went out according to plan.”
“How do you account for the pistol-shot?” demanded Sir Clinton.
“Try next door,” said Foxy. “I thought it was a fancy tip that Cecil had thrown in at the last moment. It wasn’t in the book of words.”