At this moment Mold opened the door to admit the police surgeon; and Sir Clinton broke off in order to explain the state of affairs to him. Dr Greenlaw was a business-like person who wasted no time. While Sir Clinton was speaking, he knelt down beside the corpse and made a cursory examination of it. When he rose to his feet again, he seemed satisfied.
“That sword appears to have entered the thorax between the fifth and sixth ribs,” he pointed out. “It’s pierced the left lung, evidently; you notice the blood-foam on his lips? And most probably it’s penetrated right into the heart as well. It looks as if it had; but of course I’ll need to carry out a P.M. before I can give you exact details.”
“I suppose we can take out the sword before we shift the body?” asked the Inspector. “We want to examine it before anyone else touches it.”
“Certainly,” Greenlaw replied. “You can see for yourselves what happened. He was struck from the front by a right-handed man—a fairly heavy blow, I should judge from the depth to which that sword has buried itself. There’s no sign of a twist in the wound, which looks as though he went down under it at once. Quite possibly the base of the skull may have been fractured on the floor by the force of his fall. We’ll see when we come to the P.M. But in any case that wound alone would be quite sufficient to cause almost immediate death. It’s a blade almost as broad as a bayonet, as you can see. I’ll go into the whole thing carefully when I can make a thorough examination. You’ll have him sent down to the mortuary, of course?”
“As soon as we’ve finished our work here.”
“Good. I’ll make a note or two now, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll leave you to get on. As things are, there’s nothing there which you couldn’t see for yourselves.”
He took out a pocket-book and began to jot down his notes.
“Just a moment, doctor,” Sir Clinton interposed. “I’ve got a patient for you here. I’d like you to have a look at his hand and bandage up some cuts before you go.”
Greenlaw nodded in agreement and went on with his note-taking.
“Now, Inspector,” Sir Clinton continued, “we’d better get this sword out. Be sure to take all the care you can not to rub out any finger-prints.”
Armadale obeyed, and after some cautious manœuvres he succeeded in withdrawing the weapon, which he laid carefully on the top of the central show-case.
“Now we can have a look at him,” Sir Clinton said. “You don’t mind our shifting the position of the body, doctor?”
Greenlaw closed his notebook and prepared to assist them if necessary.
“Begin with the contents of his pockets, Inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“The blade’s gone clean through his left breast pocket,” the Inspector pointed out. He felt the outside of the pocket gingerly with his fingers.
“Nothing there except his handkerchief, so far as I can feel. It’s all soaked with his blood. I’ll leave that to the last. I want to keep my hands clean while I go over the rest.”
He wiped his finger-tips carefully on his own handkerchief and continued his search.
“Right-hand breast pocket: a note-case.”
He drew it out and handed it to Sir Clinton, who opened it and counted the contents.
“Three hundred and fifty-seven pounds in notes,” he announced at length. “That’s a fair sum to be carrying about with one. Ten visiting cards: ‘J. B. Foss,’ with no address.”
He crossed over to the central case and put down the note-case thoughtfully.
“The left-hand waistcoat pockets are saturated with blood,” Armadale continued. “I’ll leave them over for the present. Top right-hand waistcoat pocket, empty. Lower right-hand waistcoat pocket: a small penknife and a tooth-pick. Not much blood here; he was lying slightly on his left side and it must have flowed in that direction, I suppose. Right-hand jacket pocket, outside: nothing. I’ll take the trousers now. Right-hand pocket: key-ring and a purse.”
He handed them to Sir Clinton, who examined them in turn before putting them on the central case.
“Only keys of suit-cases here,” the Chief Constable reported. “We haven’t come across the latch-key of his flat, if you notice.”
He counted the contents of the purse.
“Eight and sixpence and one ten-shilling note.”
The Inspector proceeded with his examination.
“Here’s something funny! He’s got a smallish pocket over his hip, just below the trouser button. That’s unusual. But it’s empty,” he added, after an eager search.
“Let me look at that,” Sir Clinton demanded.
He stooped down and inspected the pocket closely, then stood up and passed his hand across the corresponding spot on his own clothes. As he did so, Armadale noticed a peculiar expression pass across the Chief Constable’s face, as though some new idea had dawned upon him and had cleared up a difficulty. But Sir Clinton divulged nothing of what was passing in his mind.
“Make quite sure it’s empty,” he said.
Armadale turned the little pocket inside out.
“There’s nothing there,” he pointed out. “It wouldn’t hold much—it’s hardly bigger than a ticket pocket.”
He looked at the pocket again, evidently puzzled by the importance which the Chief Constable attached to it.
“It’s a silly place to have a pocket,” he said at last. “It’s not like the old-fashioned fob. That was kept tight shut by the pressure of your body. This thing’s mouth is loose and it’s simply a gift to a pickpocket.”
“I think we’ll probably find another of the same kind on the other side,” Sir Clinton contented himself with saying. “Let’s get on with the rest of them.”
Armadale turned the body slightly and put his hand into the hip pocket.
“It’s empty, too,” he announced. “It’s a very loose pocket with no flap on it. I expect he carried his pistol there and he had the pocket built for easy handling of his gun.”
He looked at the ·38 automatic which had been disclosed as he turned the body.
“That wouldn’t have fitted into the little pocket,” he pointed out. “The pistol’s far too big for the opening.”
Sir Clinton nodded his agreement with this view.
“He didn’t use it for his pistol. Now, the left-hand pockets, please. You can wash your hands as soon as you’ve gone through them.”
Inspector Armadale stolidly continued his investigation.
“Left-hand breast pocket in jacket,” he announced. “Nothing but his handkerchief, saturated with blood.”
He handed it to Sir Clinton, who inspected it carefully before putting it with the rest of the collection.
“No marks on it, either initials or laundry-mark,” he said. “Evidently been bought and used without marking.”
“Ticket pocket, empty,” the Inspector went on, withdrawing his fingers from it. “Top left waistcoat pocket: a self-filling Swan pen and a metal holder for same. Lower left waistcoat pocket: an amber cigarette-holder. Not much to go on there.”
He turned to the trousers.
“Left-hand trouser pocket: five coppers.”
Handing them over, he proceeded.
“Your notion’s quite right, sir. There’s another of these side pockets here. But it’s empty like the other one.”
Instead of replying, Sir Clinton gingerly picked up the automatic pistol from the floor and placed it along with the other objects on the central case.
“You’d better examine that for finger-prints, Inspector,” he suggested. “I leave you to make the arrangements about taking the body down to the mortuary. The sooner the better. Now, doctor, we’ll get your patient for you, if the Inspector will be good enough to bring him to the lavatory near by, where you can get his wounds patched up.”