“Confidence trick in one form or another, they say. Very plausible tongue, apparently.”
“Did they say anything more about him?” asked the Inspector. “Anything about working with a gang usually, or something like that? If he did, then we might get a clue or two from his associates.”
“He usually played a lone hand, it seems,” Sir Clinton answered. “Apparently he used to be on the Halls—the cheaper kind. ‘The Wonderful Wizard of Woz’ he called himself then. But somehow he made the business too hot for him and cleared out into swindling.”
“Ah!” Armadale evidently saw something which had not occurred to him before. “Those pockets of his—the ones that puzzled me. They might have been useful to a man who could do a bit of sleight of hand. I never thought of that at the time.”
He looked accusingly at Sir Clinton, who laughed at the expression in the Inspector’s eyes.
“Of course I admit I saw the use of the pockets almost at once,” he said. “But that’s not a breach of our bargain, Inspector. The facts are all that we are pooling, remember; and the fact that Foss had these peculiar pockets was as well known to you as to myself. This notion about sleight of hand is an interpretation of the facts, remember; and we weren’t to share our inferences.”
“I knew pretty well at the time that you’d spotted something,” Armadale contented himself with saying. “But since you put it in that way I’ll admit you were quite justified in keeping it to yourself as special information, sir. I take it that it’s a race between us now; and the one that hits on the solution first is the winner. I don’t mind.”
“Then there’s one other bit of information needed to bring us level. I’ve just had a message over the ’phone from Mr Cecil Chacewater. It appears he’s just got home again; came by the first train in the morning from town, apparently. He’s waiting for us now, so we’d better go up to Ravensthorpe. I have an idea that he may be able to throw some light on his brother’s disappearance. At least he may be able to show us how that disappearing trick was done; and that would always be a step forward.”
When they reached Ravensthorpe Cecil was awaiting them. The Inspector noticed that he seemed tired and had a weary look in his eyes.
“Been out on the spree,” was Armadale’s silent inference; for the Inspector was inclined to take a low view of humanity in general, and he put his own interpretation on Cecil’s looks.
Sir Clinton, in a few rapid sentences, apprised Cecil of the facts of the case.
“I’d heard some of that before, you know,” Cecil admitted. “Maurice’s disappearance seems to have caused a bit of a stir. I can’t say he’s greatly missed for the sake of his personality; but naturally it’s disturbing to have a brother mislaid about the place.”
“Very irksome, of course,” agreed Sir Clinton, with a faint parody of Cecil’s detached air.
Cecil seemed to think that the conversation had come to a deadlock, since the Chief Constable made no effort to continue.
“Well, what about it?” he demanded. “I haven’t got Maurice concealed anywhere about my person, you know.”
He elaborately felt in an empty jacket pocket, ending by turning it inside out.
“No,” he pointed out, “he isn’t there. In fact, I’m almost certain I haven’t got him anywhere in this suit.”
Cecil’s studied insolence seemed to escape Sir Clinton’s notice.
“There was a celebrated historical character who said something of the same sort once upon a time. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ you remember that?”
“Good old Cain? So he did. And his name begins with a C, just like mine, too! Any other points of resemblance you’d like to suggest?”
“Not just now,” Sir Clinton responded. “Information would be more to the purpose at present. Let’s go along to the museum, please. There are one or two points which need to be cleared up as soon as possible.”
Cecil made no open demur; but his manner continued to be obviously hostile as they made their way along the passages. At the museum door the constable on guard stood aside in order to let them pass in.
“Wait a moment,” Sir Clinton ordered, as his companions were about to enter the room. “I want to try an experiment before we go any further.”
He turned to Cecil.
“Will you go across and stand in front of the case in which the Muramasa sword used to be kept? You’ll find the sheath still in the case. And you, Inspector, go to the spot where we found Foss’s body.”
When they had obeyed him he swung the door round on its hinges until it was almost closed, and then looked through the remaining opening.
“Say a few words in an ordinary tone, Inspector. A string of addresses or something of that sort.”
“William Jones, Park Place, Amersley Royal,” began the Inspector, obediently; “Henry Blenkinsop, 18 Skeening Road, Hinchley; John Orran Gordon, 88 Bolsover Lane . . .”
“That will be enough, thanks. I can hear you quite well. Now lower your voice a trifle and say ‘Muramasa,’ ‘Japanese,’ and ‘sword,’ please. And mix them into the middle of some more addresses.”
The Inspector’s tone as he spoke showed plainly that he was a trifle bewildered by his instructions.
“Fred Hall, Muramasa, Endelmere; Harry Bell, 15 Elm Japanese Avenue, Stonyton; J. Hickey, sword, The Cottage, Apperley . . . Will that do?”
“Quite well, Inspector. Many thanks. Think I’m mad? All I wanted was to find out how much a man in this position could see and hear. Contributions to the pool. First, I can see the case where the Muramasa sword used to lie. Second, I can hear quite plainly what you’re saying. The slight echo in the room doesn’t hinder that.”
He swung the door open and came into the museum.
“Now, Cecil,” he said—and the Inspector noticed that all sign of lightness had gone out of his tone, “you know that Maurice disappeared rather mysteriously from this room? He was in it with Foss; there was a man at the door; Foss was murdered in that bay over there; and Maurice didn’t leave the room by the door. How did he leave?”
“How should I know?” demanded Cecil, sullenly. “You’d better ask him when he turns up again. I’m not Maurice’s nursemaid.”
Sir Clinton’s eyes grew hard.
“I’ll put it plainer for you. I’ve reason to believe that there’s an entrance to a secret passage somewhere in that bay beyond the safe. It’s the only way in which Maurice could have left this room. You’ll have to show it to us.”
“Indeed!” Cecil’s voice betrayed nothing but contempt for the suggestion.
“It’s for your own benefit that I make the proposal,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Refuse if you like. But if you do I’ve a search-warrant in my pocket and I mean to find that entrance even if I have to root out most of the panelling and gut the room. You won’t avert the discovery by this attitude of yours. You’ll merely make the whole business public. It would be far more sensible to recognize the inevitable and show us the place yourself. I don’t want to damage things any more than is necesary. But if I’m put to it I’ll be thorough, I warn you.”
Cecil favoured the Chief Constable with an angry look; but the expression on Sir Clinton’s face convinced him that it was useless to offer any further opposition.
“Very well,” he snarled. “I’ll open the thing, since I must.”
Sir Clinton took no notice of his anger.
“So long as you open it the rest doesn’t matter. I’ve no desire to pry into things that don’t concern me. I don’t wish to know how the panel opens. Inspector, I think we’ll turn our backs while Mr Chacewater works the mechanism.”
They faced about. Cecil took a few steps into the bay. There was a sharp snap; and when they turned round again a door gaped in the panelling at the end of the room.