Since Ermyntrude was extremely loth to abandon what by this time amounted to a conviction that her bete noire had murdered Wally, the Inspector's last remark annoyed her considerably. She said that to carp and to criticise and to raise niggling objections was men all over; and when the Inspector patiently asked her to explain how White could have packed a rifle into a case designed to carry, separately, the barrels and stock of a shot-gun, she replied that it was not her business to solve such problems, but rather his.
The Inspector swallowed twice before he could trust himself to answer. "Well, if he did it, all I can say is that he must be a highly talented conjurer, which, if true, is a piece of very important information which has been concealed from me."
"Of course he's not a conjurer!" said Ermyntrude crossly. "And don't think you can laugh at me, because I won't put up with it!"
At this point, Dr Chester intervened, saying with authority that Ermyntrude had talked enough, and must on no account allow herself to become agitated. He ordered her to rest quietly until luncheon was served, and, at a sign from him, Mary coaxed her to retire to the sofa in the drawing-room.
The Inspector threw Chester a look of gratitude, and said, when Mary had taken Ermyntrude away: "It beats me how you medical gentlemen get away with it, sir! If I'd so much as hinted to her that what she wanted was to cool-off, she'd have turned me out of the house, or had a fit of hysterics, which would have come to the same thing."
"You're not her doctor, Inspector," answered Chester with a faint smile. "You mustn't forget that I've attended Mrs. Carter for many years."
"Know her very well, I dare say?"
"A doctor always knows his patients well."
"Yes, but I'm not talking about her bronchial tubes," said the Inspector. "To tell you the truth, I'm not over and above fond of people's insides. Not that I'm squeamish, mind you, but once you start thinking about how many yards of intestines, and I don't know what besides, you've got, it's enough to give you the horrors. Was Mr. Carter a patient of yours too?"
"Yes, but he didn't often have occasion to call me in on his own account."
"Still, you probably knew him pretty well, I dare say?"
"Fairly. If you want to know whether he was an intimate friend of mine, no: he wasn't."
The Inspector's penetrating gaze held a question. "I take it you didn't like him any more than anyone else seems to have done?"
"No, I didn't like him much," Chester replied calmly. "He was a tiresome sort of a man - no moral sense whatsoever, and as weak as water."
"Did it surprise you, when you heard he'd been shot, sir?"
"Naturally it did."
"You didn't know of anybody who might have wanted him out of the way?"
"Certainly not. I know of' many people who have thought for years that it was a pity Mrs. Carter ever married him, of course."
His tone was uncommunicative. The Inspector said: "It's a funny thing, doctor, but I get the impression that you're not being as open with me as I'd like."
"Sorry, I'm afraid there's nothing I can tell you," Chester answered. "I wasn't in Carter's confidence."
He turned to pick up his attache-case from the table, but before he could leave the house, Vicky had entered it, with Hugh Dering behind her.
"Oh, hallo!" Vicky said, mildly surprised to see the Inspector. "Hallo, Maurice! How's Ermyntrude?"
"Not very well. You ought to know that," Chester said, rather sternly.
"Poor sweet, I'm afraid she won't be until this is all over. Why didn't you come to the Inquest? I quite thought you'd be there, though as a matter of fact it turned out to be frightfully stagnant."
"I couldn't see that it concerned me," replied Chester. He nodded to the Inspector, told Vicky briefly not to agitate her mother, and left the house.
"But why is Maurice so curt and unloving?" wondered Vicky. "Did you annoy him, Inspector? And, I say, what are you doing here? Or can't you tell me?"
"Oh, there's no secret about what I'm doing," responded Hemingway. "I'm trying to discover who could have taken that rifle out of the house, and not getting much help either."
"I'll help you!" offered Vicky. "Practically anyone could, I should think."
"Yes, that's a lot of use," said the Inspector.
"Well, I could have," she suggested. "Easily! The only thing is that I've never shot with it, so I shouldn't think I'd have managed to kill my stepfather."
"Tell me this, miss!" said the Inspector suddenly. "When you heard that shot, just exactly where were you?"
"Oh, I was round the bend in the stream! And I didn't hear or see anyone, and my dog didn't bark, or cock his ears, or anything, and have I got to say it all over again?"
"Didn't you think it was a bit odd, anyone shooting in the shrubbery?"
"No, because actually I didn't think about it. You often hear shots in the country, you know, and it might easily have been Mr. White, or someone, shooting a rabbit."
"You weren't within sight of the bridge?"
"No, round the bend. I told you. And then I wandered up one of the paths, climbing the hill, and it wasn't till I heard Janet crying, that it dawned on me that something had gone wrong. But why on earth you worry about me when you've got the Prince right under your nose, absolutely asking to be arrested, I can't imagine. He could have taken the rifle as easily as I could."
"Not on Sunday afternoon," said Mary, who had just come out of the drawing-room.
"Darling Mary, are you trying to send me to the gallows?" asked Vicky reproachfully.
"Of course I'm not, but one must be fair, and I saw the Prince leave the house on Sunday afternoon."
"If he did it," said Vicky, "he'd laid his plans long before Sunday. Probably on Saturday."
"Did he go into the gun-room on Saturday?" asked Hugh.
"Yes, of course he did. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he took the rifle at dead of night, and hid it somewhere. In fact, it would be a good thing to assume that he did, and then work it out from that point'
"If you don't mind my putting in a word, miss, before you take the gentleman's character clean away," said the Inspector mildly, "I would like to point out that according to all the evidence I've heard so far, Mr. White didn't invite your stepfather until Sunday morning."
"Oh well, we can easily get round that!" replied Vicky. "I expect Alexis just hid the rifle in case it should come in handy. After all, my stepfather was bound to go out for a stroll sometime or other, and I do definitely feel that Alexis is a very thoughtful person and would have had everything ready just on the off-chance."
This was too much, even for the Inspector, and he looked round for his hat. Mary said: "I wish you wouldn't talk in that irresponsible way, Vicky! It's absolutely actionable!"
"Oh, is it? Could I be had up for libel, or something?" asked Vicky, her eyes brightening.
"Now look what you've done!" said Hugh, addressing Mary. "No, Vicky, no! Don't start seeing yourself in the witness-box, causing strong jurymen to shed tears of pity for you!"
"Yes, it strikes me that you're just about as bad as she is, sir," said Hemingway severely, and left them. Mary found herself to be so much in agreement with this pronouncement, that instead of inviting Hugh to stay to lunch, she asked somewhat crossly if he had come to Palings for any particular purpose.
"Only to return Sarah Bernhardt to the bosom of her family," he replied. "The lady's car died on her."
"Yes, and I quite think I went over rather well with your father," said Vicky, "which is a thing I didn't expect, because he didn't take to me in the least when I was being a Girl of the Century. Mary, you were too utterly right not to go to the Inquest! It was wholly spurious."
"Where's Maurice?" Mary demanded, unheeding.
"Oh, he went away! He didn't seem to me to have the party spirit at all. Probably Alexis has trodden him down, like Keats, or someone."
Mary sighed. "I suppose you mean by that that he saw how serious the whole situation is."
"We all see that," said Hugh.
"Well, you seem to be getting a good deal of amusement out of it."
"Sorry! You shouldn't have loosed Vicky on to me."
"I'm glad you find her so funny. I don't," said Mary, walking to the staircase.
Hugh watched her till she was out of sight, and then took Vicky by the elbow, and gave her an admonitory shake. "Look here, my little ray of sunshine, you're getting on Mary's nerves! I know you think Carter's death a blessing imperfectly disguised, but it's just conceivable that Mary doesn't. After all, he was her cousin. You've got to behave yourself."
"I am behaving myself!" said Vicky indignantly. "Why, I even gave up the idea of being mysterious with the Inspector, just because I thought Mary mightn't like it! I've been polite to you, too, which takes a lot of doing, I can tell you!"
"Vicky, you little beast, if I see much more of you I shall end by wringing your neck!" said Hugh.
"If Peake's listening, you'll be sorry you said that," remarked Vicky. "Specially if my body is found lying about the place tomorrow. Are you staying to lunch?"
"No, I must get back. Don't spread that story of Alan White's about, by the way!"
When he had left the house, Vicky went upstairs, and presently wandered into Mary's bedroom. "Are you feeling jaded, darling Mary?"
"Extremely jaded."
"Poor sweet! All the same, I do truly think you make yourself worse through not looking on the bright side. Quite honestly, do you mind Wally's being dead?"
"Of course I," Mary stopped short, under the clear gaze bent upon her. "'That is, I suppose I don't. Yes, I do, a bit, though. Anyway, I can't bear the thought of his having been murdered."
"No, I'm not frightfully partial to it myself," agreed Vicky. "That's why I don't dwell on it."
"Yes, you do. You keep on wondering who could have killed him, and it seems to me dreadful!"
"Well, so do you," said Vicky. "Which reminds me that something rather disgruntling happened after that mouldy Inquest. Janet went and queered Robert's pitch, by divulging that he knew all along Wally was going to tea at the Dower House, so I'm rather afraid the Inspector may try to pin the murder on to him."
"No!" Mary exclaimed, startled. "Robert did know?"
"So Janet said. Of course, I always did think he might have done it, only if so I'd rather he got away with it, on account of Ermyntrude. That was why I tried to put the Inspector on to Alexis."
"But you can't! You mustn't! If Robert - but I won't believe it! If he did, it would be absolutely wicked to try to make the police suspect the Prince instead!"
"Oh no, really it wouldn't! Because Robert's much nicer than Alexis, who was after poor Ermyntrude's money, and I dare say has a perfectly revolting past, which Robert hasn't in the least. And if Robert did murder Wally, he probably thought it was the right thing to do. Why was Maurice so peevish?"
"He wasn't. Naturally, he must be rather worried about all this, for Aunt Ermy's sake."
Vicky opened her eyes at that. "But she isn't ill, is she?"
"No, but I've always fancied that he wass very fond of her," Mary said.
"Darling, you don't suppose he's in love with her, do you?"
"No, no, of course I don't! Only he did say that she'd been very good to him once, or something."
"Oh, that must have been on account of his sister! He used to have one, only she died, and I believe Ermyntrude did rather succour her; only it all happened in the Dark Ages, when I was small, so I don't really know. I wouldn't wonder if Maurice thinks Robert did it.
"Why? Surely he hasn't said anything to you about it?"
"No, but Robert's a friend of his, and you must admit that he's taking it all frightfully seriously, so that it looks rather as though he feared the worst."
"He can't think that! In any case, I didn't find him any different from his usual self. He certainly wasn't with me."
"Oh well! then it was probably Hugh who made him so glum. I've noticed that he doesn't seem to like Hugh much."
Mary stared at her. "But what could he possibly find to dislike in Hugh?"
"Old school-tie. Alan does. Besides, there's plenty to dislike in him. Mothballs, and being dictatorial, and - oh, lots of things!"
"Hallo!" said Mary, suddenly making a discovery. "Have you fallen for Hugh?"
"No, I think he's noisome, and I do not fall for other people's boy-friends!"
"If that means me, don't worry! I told you he wasn't, when you asked me."
"But isn't he?" asked Vicky anxiously.
"Definitely not. If you want the truth, I did rather wonder if he was going to be, at one time, because I like him tremendously. Only, since all this happened - I can't explain, but I know he isn't. We don't think on the same lines. You probably think I'm very dull and serious minded, and I dare say I am, for I can't see any humour in the present situation, and, frankly, it annoys me when I hear Hugh being thoroughly flippant about it."
"Well, it means nothing to me," said Vicky. "He's fusty, and dusty, and he doesn't think I'm a great actress. In fact, I practically abominate him, and I shouldn't in the least mind if the Inspector suddenly started to suspect him of being the murderer."
Fortunately for Mr. Hugh Dering, the Inspector had not yet started to suspect him of anything worse than a pronounced partiality for his chief tormentor. The Inspector's suspicions were still equally divided between the only five people who appeared to have any motive for having killed Wally Carter. Of these, young Baker, whom he interviewed at Burntside after leaving Palings, seemed to be the least likely, and Robert Steel the most probable suspect.
The Inspector, returning to Fritton a little while after five o'clock, said that he knew Baker's type well, and that his knowledge of psychology informed him that loudvoiced young men who stood upon soap-boxes and inveighed against the existing rules of society were not potential murderers. Sergeant Wake, who had a prosaic mind, said: "To my way of thinking, the fact of its having been Carter's own rifle pretty well rules him out. It doesn't seem to me that he could have got hold of it, let alone have carried it off on his motor-bike, which is what you'd think he must have done, if he stole it on the Saturday evening."
But a day spent by the Sergeant and his underlings in searching for circumstances or witnesses either to disprove or to corroborate the stories told by Prince Varasashvili and Robert Steel, had been unsuccessful enough to cast him into a mood of pessimism. "The case looked straightforward enough when we started on it, but the conclusion I've come to is that the man who did this murder laid his plans a sight more carefully than we gave him credit for."
"Yes," said the Inspector cheerfully, "he certainly knew his onions. It's a pleasure to deal with him. You keep right on pursuing investigations into Steel and the Prince. You'll maybe get something sooner or later." He looked at Superintendent Small, who had joined the conference. "Am I right in thinking Mr. Silent Steel's wellliked in these parts?"
"I never heard anyone speak ill of him," replied Small. "He's not one to throw his weight about, mind you, and he doesn't belong to the real gentry, but they all seem to like him well enough."
"That's what I thought. Everyone likes him, and everyone knows he's been hanging round the fair Ermyntrude these two years, and nobody means to give him away if he can help it."
"Why, what makes you say that?"
"Arithmetic," replied the Inspector. "Habit of putting two and two together. I've been like it from a child."
"That's right," said Wake slowly. "You can get any of the folk here to talk about the Prince; and the way Percy Baker's talked of in this town you'd think people would like to see him convicted, and his sister, too. Not at all popular, they aren't. But the instant you start making inquiries into Steel you're up against a lot of deaf mutes. No one knowss anything about his movements, and no one's ever had any idea of his being in love with Mrs. Carter."
"Well, he may be the whitest man they know in these parts, but he's too cool a customer for my taste," said Hemingway. "Nothing rattles him, not even having his story of not knowing Carter was going to the Whites blown up by Miss White. He has a nice quiet think, too, before he answers a question. Of course, his mother may have told him always to think before he spoke, but it isn't a habit which makes me take to him much. Is he a friend of the doctor?"
"Chester?" said Small. "Yes, I'd say they were pretty friendly. Why?"
"Oh, nothing!" said Hemingway airily. "Only that I had a bit of a chat with the doctor up at Palings this morning, and it struck me that he wasn't what you might call bursting with information. The way I look at it is, if anyone knows the ins and outs of that household, it's the doctor, for if you were to tell me the fair Ermyntrude doesn't treat him like a confession-box I wouldn't believe you."
"Well, I don't know," said Small. "You wouldn't hardly expect him to give away anything she may have said to him, would you?"
"No, nor I wouldn't expect him to be so much on his guard that he leaves the house sooner than let me ask him a few questions," retorted Hemingway.
"You think he knows something against Steel?"
"I wouldn't go as far as to say that, but I've a strong notion that he's got his suspicions. Of course, he may know something highly incriminating about one of those two girls. On the face of it, though, I'd say it's Steel he's shielding."
"Or the Prince," interpolated Wake.
"No," replied the Inspector positively. "Not since he's had him staying in his house. It wouldn't be human nature for him to want to protect that chap."
"Do you think he saw something?" asked the Superintendent. "According to what he told Cook, he was called out to a case on Sunday afternoon, and must have driven past the Dower House. Did you happen to ask him?"
"No," replied Hemingway. "I didn't, because I knew what answer I'd get." He looked at his watch. "Well, I'm off to have a heart-to-heart with Mr. Harold White. He ought to be back from his work by now."
"You're going to question him about that tale you had from Mr. Dering and Miss Fanshawe?" said Wake. "Myself, I can't see that it's got anything to do with the murder."
"I've been told it's probably the clue to the whole mystery," responded Hemingway.
Wake blinked. "You have, sir? Who told you that?"
"Miss Fanshawe did," said Hemingway.
The Superintendent was so astonished by this answer that for some time after Hemingway had left the room he sat turning it over in his mind. Finally he said in somewhat severe accents: "What does Miss Fanshawe know about it? Seems a funny thing to me to act on what a kid like that says!"
"That's all right, sir: it's only his way of talking," said Wake indulgently. "Sharp as a needle, he is, I give you my word."
The Inspector, meanwhile, made his way out of Fritton to the Dower House, where he found Harold White, who had just returned from the collieries.
White received him in his study, an uninteresting apartment with an outlook on to a clump of tall evergreens. He seemed rather surprised to see the Inspector, but asked at once what he might have the pleasure of doing for him. "I suppose you've got a lot more tucked up your sleeve than we heard at the Inquest this morning," he remarked. "Queer business, isn't it? I'd have said Carter was the last man in the world anyone would want to put out of the way, but don't anyone tell me he was shot by accident! There was no accident about that." He picked up a box of cigarettes from his desk, and offered it to Hemingway. "Have you come about what my daughter seems to have told you after I'd gone this morning? She's a bit worried about that. Poured it all out to me as soon as I got home. Well," He hesitated, and struck a match, and held it for the Inspector. "It isn't for me to give you advice, but the fact of the matter is my daughter's a bit of a talker. I wouldn't set too much store by what she told you."
"How's that?" inquired Hemingway. "Didn't she invite Mr. Steel here on Sunday?"
"Oh yes, I didn't mean that! She's always trying to get him to come over. Thinks he must be lonely, living by himself. You know what women are. What I meant was, that it didn't strike me that Steel was listening to her with more than half an ear."
"I see," said Hemingway. "Was he listening when you warned him that you'd got Carter coming?"
"Warned him I'd got Carter coming!" repeated White derisively. "Trust my daughter to make a mountain out of a molehill! What I actually did was to say to her, not to him, that as I'd asked Carter over I didn't think Steel would want to come."
"Like that, was it?" said Hemingway. "Would he have been listening to that, by any chance?"
"Lord, I don't know! He might have been."
"Well, that's very interesting," said Hemingway. "What's more, it brings me to what I came to talk to you about."
"Shoot!" invited White, waving him to an armchair, and himself sitting down by his desk.
"The first thing I should like to know," said Hemingway, "is whether you'd got any particular reason for asking Mr. Carter here on Sunday."
"Oh!" said White, the smile leaving his face. "You needn't tell me who put you up to asking me that question. And while I'm about it, I may as well tell you that there's no love lost between me and Ermyntrude Carter, and never has been. Give her time, and she'll go around saying I killed Carter, though what on earth I should want to do such a dam'-fool thing for it would puzzle even her to say!"
"Now what makes you call it a "dam'-fool thing", sir?" inquired the Inspector.
"Seems obvious to me. Wouldn't you say it was a dam'fool thing to murder a man for no shadow of reason?"
"I'd be more likely to say it if there was a reason why it mightn't suit your book for Mr. Carter to be murdered," responded Hemingway.
"Oh, come off it!" said White. "I know just what you're at, and a pack of rubbish it is!"
The Inspector rose, and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. "I wouldn't like you to get me wrong," he said. "When I get on to a delicate matter, you'd be surprised how discreet I can be. You're quite sure that you and Mr. Jones and Mr. Carter weren't out to make a bit of money over this new building scheme they've got in Fritton?"
White looked a little discomfited by this direct method of attack, and shifted the blotter on his desk. "There's no reason why I should answer that sort of question."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that, sir! You're bound to assist me all you can, you know."
"You can't expect me to admit anything like that. Besides-'
"There, now, if you haven't got me wrong after all! Properly speaking, I'm not interested in building schemes."
"Well, supposing I say I had got a little scheme on? Nothing illegal in that, is there?"
"I don't know, and what's more I shan't inquire," said Hemingway encouragingly.
"All right, then, I had."
"Just as a matter of interest, was Mr. Carter to put up the cash?"
"Considering we - I - never had the chance to tell him about it, I can't say. I thought he might be glad of the chance to make a bit of money."
"And you and Mr. Jones were going to get a rake-off, I take it?"
"I'm not going to answer for Jones. Naturally, there would have been some sort of a commission."
"My mistake!" apologised the Inspector. "Seems to have been a fair pleasure to handle, Mr. Carter."
White gave a short laugh. "Poor devil, he was anxious to make some money of his own, which he hadn't got to account for to that wife of his!"
"How did he account to her for the hundred pounds he lent you a couple of months ago?" asked the Inspector.
"I don't suppose he did. She made him an allowance. No reason for her ever to have found out about it if he hadn't been shot. I only wanted a loan to tide me over to the quarter. Don't get any wrong idea into your head about that! I could sit down and write a cheque for the amount right now. I don't say it's convenient, but my bank will meet it all right." He glanced up rather shamefacedly, and added: "If you want the truth, it's damned inconvenient that Carter's dead! Of course, we weren't going to make a fortune out of that little deal, but anything's welcome in these hard times."
The Inspector nodded. "Anyone but Jones and Carter know of this scheme of yours?"
"Well, of course not!" said White impatiently. "A nice stink there'd have been if they had! I can't see what you want to know about it for. It can't have any bearing on the case." A thought struck him; he said sharply: "Who put you on to it, anyway?"
"I needn't worry you with that," replied Hemingway. He thrust a hand into his pocket, and drew out certain objects, which he laid on the desk before White. "Now, if you could identify any of these, you might help me a lot," he said. "One lady's hair-slide; one broken nail-file; one small magnet; and one gent's pocket-knife in good condition. Seen any of them before?"
White took a moment to answer. "What's this? Starting an ironmongery business? Where did you find them?"
"In your shrubbery."
"I've never seen any of them before in my life." "Funny. I thought for a moment you had," said the Inspector blandly.
"Well, I haven't." White flicked the hair-slide with a contemptuous finger. "Probably the maid's. I don't wear them myself. I don't amuse myself picking up needles with magnets either; and I've never used a nail-file in my life."
"What about the knife?" inquired the Inspector.
"It might belong to anyone. I've seen dozens like it. I used to have one myself, if it comes to that. Anyone could have dropped it."
"No idea who, sir?"
"No, none at all," said White, looking him in the eye.
"Well, that's very disappointing. Mind if I ask your son if he happens to know anything about it?"
"Good Lord, you don't suppose my son had anything to do with Carter's death, do you? You're wasting your time! He'd got no interest in Carter whatsoever."
"Still, I don't know why you should object to my asking him if he's seen the knife before," said the Inspector.
White got up. "Object! I don't care a damn how you choose to waste your time. I'll call my son."
Alan, stridently summoned, lounged into the study a moment or two later. From the defensive expression on his face, the Inspector judged that he expected to be violently taxed with having betrayed his parent. He made haste to dispel this fear by holding out the pocketknife. "Good afternoon, sir. Ever seen that before?"
Alan looked rather relieved, and took the knife. "Where did you find it?"
"Do you recognise it, sir?"
"Yes, it's mine. At least, I think it is. I lost one just like it only the other day, anyway."
"That doesn't prove it's yours," said White. "It's a common enough pattern."
"I didn't say it did prove it. All I said was that it looks as though it might be mine. What's the mystery about? Where was the thing found?"
"In the shrubbery," replied the Inspector.
Alan put the knife down rather hastily. "Oh, I see! Well, what of it? I often go there, and I dare say it dropped out of my pocket."
"Exactly what I was thinking myself," said the Inspector. "I wonder if you know anything about the rest of my little collection?"
Alan glanced at the desk. "Good Lord, did you find them all in the shrubbery? No, I don't know whose they are. They certainly don't belong to me. What's that thing? A nail-file? Oh well, it probably belonged to the last maid we had. She used to file her nails into points, and paint them red into the bargain. That's why she got the push."
"Yes, that's very interesting to the Inspector," said White sarcastically. "If that's all you can tell him, you may as well make yourself scarce."
"Not on my account," said Hemingway. "I'm just off myself."
"Sorry I couldn't be of more assistance to you," said White, accompanying him out into the hall. "As for that other little affair - you'll keep it under your hat, won't you?"
The Inspector said briefly that there was no need for him to worry about that, and left the house, a thoughtful man. When he told his Sergeant the result of his visit, Wake knit his brows, and said after profound consideration: "Well, I suppose one might get something out of it, sir, though it doesn't seem very likely to me. If young White got wind of that scheme of his father's, others might have done likewise."
"So they might," said Hemingway, somewhat acidly. "And then have shot Garter just to upset the scheme. I've come across people like that, of course. In books."
Sergeant Wake flushed, and said in a mortified voice that he was only trying to use his imagination, as his chief had frequently advised him to do.
"Forget it!" said Hemingway.
Silence fell. Hemingway, sitting at his desk, drew an intricate mosaic of cubes and squares on the blottingpaper, apparently absorbed in this childish occupation. Sergeant Wake watched him hopefully. Suddenly the Inspector threw down his pencil. "What's the most common motive for murder, Wake?" he demanded.
"Passion," replied the Sergeant promptly.
"Not by a long chalk it isn't. Money, my lad; that's why five out of seven murders are committed."
"Yes, but Carter hadn't got any money," objected Wake.
"He'd got something just as important, if only I'd had the sense to see it sooner," said Hemingway. "He'd got an aunt."
The Sergeant frowned disapproval. "That brings us back to the young lady: Miss Cliffe. I must say, I don't like it, sir."
"Oh no, it doesn't!" replied Hemingway. "Miss Cliffe doesn't get Aunt Clara's fortune, by what Mr. Dering tells me, and as he's a Chancery barrister I wouldn't be surprised if he knew what he was talking about."
"Well, I know that, sir, but she didn't, did she?"
"No, she didn't, but that isn't to say that others were as ignorant. What I want to know is who the old lady's heir is, now that Carter's been disposed of. Get me Miss Cliffe on the 'phone, will you?"
The Sergeant found the number in the directory, and picked up the receiver. "But, good Lord, sir, that's very likely bringing in someone we've never even heard of!" he said.
"Well, why not?" demanded Hemingway. "I don't know about you, but I'm sick and tired of this lot, for there isn't a penny to choose between any of them!"
The Sergeant told the Telephone Exchange the number he wanted, and tried to put his jostling thoughts into words. "Yes, sir, I know; but if we go and dig out some stranger I don't see how he could have known what Carter's movements were, or Hallo, is that Mrs. Carter's residence? Inspector Hemingway would like to speak to Miss Cliffe, please."