Inspector Armadale showed no appreciation of this indirect tribute to his powers.
“Had he many visitors?”
“Not at the flat. He may have met his friends in the restaurant downstairs for all I know.”
“Do you remember any visitors at the flat?”
“No.”
The Inspector seemed to recollect something he had missed.
“Did he get any telegrams?”
“Yes.”
“Frequently?”
“Fairly often.”
“You’ve no idea of the contents of these wires?”
Marden obviously took offence at this.
“You asked me before if I pried into his affairs; and I told you I didn’t.”
“How often did these wires arrive?” the Inspector demanded, taking no notice of Marden’s annoyance.
“Perhaps once or twice a week.”
“Did he bet?” the Inspector inquired, as though it had just struck him that the telegrams might thus be explained.
“I know nothing about that.”
Armadale went off on a fresh tack.
“Did he seem to be well off for money?”
“He paid me regularly, if that’s what you mean.”
“He had a car and a chauffeur, hadn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Were they his own or simply hired?”
“I don’t know. Not my business.”
“The Gunner’s Mansions flats are expensive?”
“They get the name of it. I don’t know what he paid.”
“You don’t seem to have had much curiosity, Marden.”
“I’m not paid for being curious.”
The Inspector put down his pencil and reflected for a moment or two.
“Have you any idea of his address in America?”
“Not my business.”
“Did he write many letters?”
“I couldn’t say. None of my business.”
“You can at least say whether he gave you any to post.”
“He didn’t.”
“Have you anything else you can tell us about him?”
Marden seemed to think carefully before he replied.
“All his clothes were split new.”
“Anything else?”
“He carried a revolver—I mean an automatic.”
“What size was it?”
“About that length.”
The valet indicated the length approximately with his hands, and winced slightly as he moved the bandaged one.
“H’m! A ·38 or a ·45,” Armadale commented. “Too big for a ·22, anyway.”
He took up his pencil again.
“Now come to this afternoon. Begin at lunchtime and go on.”
Marden reflected for a moment, as though testing his memory.
“I’d better begin before lunch. Mr Foss came to me with a parcel in his hand and asked me to take it over to Hincheldene post office. He wanted it registered. He offered to let me take the car if I wished; but I preferred to walk over. I like the fresh air.”
“And then?” demanded the Inspector with an unconscious plagiarism of his Chief.
“Immediately after lunch, I set out and walked through the grounds towards Hincheldene village. I didn’t hurry. It was a nice afternoon for a walk. By and by I met a keeper, and he told me I couldn’t go any farther in that direction. He’d orders to turn back anyone, he said. I talked to him for a minute or two, and explained where I was going; and I pulled the parcel out of my pocket as a guarantee of good faith. He didn’t know me, you see. And when I got the parcel out, I noticed the label quite by chance.”
“Ah, you do look at addresses after all!” interjected the Inspector.
“Quite by chance,” Marden went on, without taking any notice of the thrust. “And I saw that Mr Foss had made a mistake.”
“How did you know that,” Inspector Armadale demanded, with the air of a cat pouncing on a mouse. “You said you’d taken no interest in his correspondence and yet you knew this parcel was directed to a wrong address. Curious, isn’t it?”
Marden did not even permit himself to smile as he discomfited the Inspector.
“He’d left out the name of the town. An obvious oversight when he was writing the label.”
“Well, go on,” growled the Inspector, evidently displeased at losing his score.
“As soon as I saw that, I knew it was no good taking the thing to the post office as it was. So I asked the keeper a question or two about the shortest way to Hincheldene without getting on to the barred ground. Then I turned and came home again, intending to ask Mr Foss to complete the address on the parcel.”
“What time was it when you reached here again?”
Marden considered for a while.
“I couldn’t say precisely. Sometime round about half-past three or a bit later. I didn’t look at the time.”
“What did you do then?”
“I hunted about for Mr Foss, but he didn’t seem to be in the house. At last, when I was just giving it up, I met Miss Chacewater coming away from this room, and she told me that Mr Foss was inside. She went away, and I came to the door. It was half-open and I could hear voices inside: Mr Foss and Mr Chacewater from the sound. I thought they’d soon be coming out and that I’d get Mr Foss as he passed me; so I waited, instead of interrupting them.”
“How long did you wait?”
“Only a minute or two, so far as I can remember.”
“You could hear them talking?”
“I could hear the sound of their voices. I couldn’t hear what they said. There’s an echo or something in this room and all I heard was the tone they were speaking in.”
“What sort of tone do you mean?”
Marden paused as though searching for an adjective.
“It seemed to me an angry tone. They raised their voices.”
“As if they were quarrelling?”
“Like that. And then I heard Mr Chacewater say: ‘So that’s what you’re after?’ Then I heard what sounded like a scuffle and a gasp. I was taken aback, of course. Who wouldn’t be? I stood stock still with the parcel in my hand for a moment or two. Then I got my head back and I pushed open the door and rushed into the room.”
“Be careful here,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “Don’t try to force your memory. Tell us exactly what comes back into your mind.”
Marden nodded.
“When I got into the room here,” he went on, “the first thing I saw was Mr Chacewater. He had his back to me and was just turning the corner here.”
Marden walked across and indicated the end of the bay beyond the one which contained the safe, the last recess in the room at the end opposite from the door.
“He went round this corner in a hurry. That’s the last I saw of him.”
Marden’s face betrayed his amazement even at the recollection.
“Never mind that just now,” said Sir Clinton. “Tell us what you did yourself.”
“I couldn’t see Mr Foss at the first glance; but when I got near the corner where I’d seen Mr Chacewater, I saw Mr Foss lying on the ground. I thought he’d slipped or something; and I went over to give him a hand up. Then I saw a big knife or a dagger through his chest and some blood on his mouth. As I was hurrying over to his side, I slipped on the parquet—it’s very slippery—and down I came. I put out my hand to save myself and my fist broke the glass in one of these cases. When I got up again, my hand was streaming with blood. It’s a nasty gash. So I pulled out my handkerchief and wrapped it round my hand before I did anything else. It was simply gushing with blood and I thought of it first of all.”
Marden held up his roughly swathed hand in proof.
“I got to my feet again and went over to Mr Foss. By that time he was either dead or next door to it. He didn’t move. I didn’t touch him, for I saw well enough he was done for. Then I went to the door and shouted ‘Murder!’ as hard as I could. Then while I was shouting, it struck me as queer that Mr Chacewater had disappeared.”