Somewhat mystified by this change of intention, the Inspector agreed. Sir Clinton’s manner did not invite questions.
“I think we had better see Miss Chacewater again. There are one or two questions I’d like to put to her, Inspector; and you had better be there.”
In a minute or two, Joan was found, with Michael Clifton in attendance. Sir Clinton did not think it worth while to sit down.
“Just a couple of points I want to ask about. First of all, is there any record of the combination which opens the lock of the safe in the museum?”
Joan shook her head.
“Maurice was the only one of us who knew it. My father did leave a note of it; but I remember that Maurice destroyed that. He specially wished to keep it to himself.”
“Another point,” Sir Clinton went on. “Did Foss know, on the night of the burglary, which of the rows contained the real medallions and which row the replicas were in?”
Joan reflected for a moment or two before replying.
“He must have known. Maurice had shown him the things once at least, if not oftener; and I know there was no secret as to which were the real things and which were the counterfeits.”
Sir Clinton seemed satisfied with this information.
“One last thing,” he continued. “I suppose you could show me where your brother keeps his correspondence. We must get hold of Kessock’s address and notify him about Foss’s death; and there seems no way of doing it as quick as this one. If the papers aren’t locked up, perhaps I could see them now?”
It appeared that the letters were available and Sir Clinton turned them over rapidly.
“Fifth Avenue? That’s satisfactory.”
He put the papers back in their place.
“There’s just one thing more. I’m going to put a constable on guard at the door of the museum for a while—day and night for a day or two, perhaps. You won’t mind?”
“Certainly not. Do as you wish.”
Sir Clinton acknowledged the permission. Then, as though struck by an after-thought, he inquired:
“Have you Cecil’s address?”
Joan shook her head.
“He said he’d let me know where he was staying, but he hasn’t written. Perhaps he hasn’t settled down yet. He may be staying at an hotel for a day or two.”
“Please ring me up as soon as he sends word.”
Joan promised to do this, and Sir Clinton continued:
“By the way, Inspector Armadale wishes to take the finger-prints of everyone in the house. Would you mind setting an example and having yours taken along with the rest? If you do it, then it will be easier for us to get the others. They won’t be suspicious when they hear that it’s a general inquisition.”
Both Joan and Michael consented without ado.
“The Inspector will be with you in a moment or two,” Sir Clinton said, as he took his leave. “Just a word with you, Inspector.”
Armadale followed him from the room.
“Now, Inspector, there’s a lot for you to do yet. First of all, get these finger-prints. Then telephone to London and get Kessock’s business address. As soon as you get it, let me know.”
“But you got his address from the correspondence, sir, surely. It’s in Fifth Avenue.”
“I want his other address—his office in New York, you understand?”
“His office will be shut by now, if you’re going to cable,” the Inspector pointed out, thoughtlessly.
“No, it won’t. You forget that their time is some hours behind ours. We’ll catch him in office hours if you hurry. Then when you’ve done that, get Foss’s face photographed; and arrange for a constable and reliefs to be posted at the museum door till further orders. The museum door is to be left open and the light is to be left burning at night, so that he can keep his eye on things.”
Inspector Armadale jotted some notes in his pocket-book. As he closed this, he seemed to think of something.
“There’s just one thing, sir. You want to get into the safe? Couldn’t we get the number of the lock combination from the makers? They must know it.”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“Unfortunately the safe has no maker’s name-plate on it, Inspector. I looked at the time we examined it. It’s a fairly old pattern, though, I noticed; and if it hasn’t got a balanced fence arbour, I think I can guarantee to find the combination of it with a little assistance.”
Armadale looked rather blank.
“I thought these things were too stiff to tackle,” he said.
Sir Clinton suppressed a smile.
“You ought to read Edgar Allan Poe, Inspector. ‘Human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve,’ was a dictum of his. If I’m not mistaken about that safe, I think I could guarantee to open it in less than ten minutes. The resources of science, and all that, you know. But I think it would be better to wait a while and see if Mr Chacewater turns up to open it for us himself.”
“But perhaps Mr Chacewater’s body is inside it now,” the Inspector suggested. “There may have been a double murder, for all we know.”
“In that case, we shall find him when we open it,” Sir Clinton assured him lightly. “If he’s inside, he’ll hardly be likely to shift his quarters.”
Chapter Ten. THE SHOT IN THE CLEARING
WHEN Sir Clinton reached his office on the morning after the murder at Ravensthorpe, he found Inspector Armadale awaiting him with a number of exhibits.
“I’ve brought everything that seemed worth while,” Armadale explained. “I thought you might care to look at some of the things again, although you’ve seen them already.”
“That’s very good of you, Inspector. I should like to see some of them, as a matter of fact. Now suppose we begin with the finger-prints. They might suggest a few fresh ideas.”
“They seem to suggest more notions than I have room for in my head,” the Inspector confessed ruefully. “It’s a most tangled case, to my mind.”
“Then let’s start with the finger-prints,” the Chief Constable proposed. “At least they’ll settle some points, I hope.”
Armadale unwrapped a large brown-paper parcel.
“I got the lot without any difficulty; and last night we photographed them all and enlarged the pictures. They’re all here.”
“You took Foss’s ones, I suppose?”
“Yes, and I managed to find some of Maurice Chacewater’s too.”
“That’s pretty sharp work,” Sir Clinton complimented his subordinate. “How did you manage to make sure they were his?”
“I asked for his set of razors, sir, and took them from the blades. He’d left prints here and there of his finger and thumb either on the blade or on the handle. Of course I couldn’t get anything else very sharp; but these are quite enough for the purpose, as you’ll see.”
He laid out three enlarged photographs on the desk before Sir Clinton; then, below each of the first two, he put down a second print.
“This first print,” he said, pointing to it, “represents the finger-prints we found on the automatic pistol. You can see that it’s the arch pattern on the thumb. Now here”—he indicated the companion print—“is Foss’s thumb-print; and if you look at it, you’ll see almost at a glance that it’s identical with the print on the pistol. They’re identical. I’ve measured them. And there are no other prints except Foss’s on the pistol.”
“Good,” said Sir Clinton. “‘And that, said John, is that.’ We know where we are so far as the pistol’s concerned. Pass along, please.”
“I’ve examined the pistol,” the Inspector continued. “It’s fully loaded in the magazine and has an extra cartridge in the barrel; but it hasn’t been fired recently so far as I can see.”