Then the professor took up one of the pieces of cork, and probed and pricked at it with a pocket knife, and gradually eased the pieces into two.
“You see,” he said, taking up the other half and performing the same operation on it, “the cork was cut in two lengthways, the inside hollowed, the shot inserted, and the cork fastened together again with a strong adherent. It was cleverly done, too.”
“What else have you to say about it, sir?” asked the inspector.
“This,” Golbourne spoke solemnly. “Sir George Borgham was killed with this weapon from a distance of ten feet and a height of eight feet.”
Silence, and again silence, broken after a few tense seconds by Inspector Mirch, who said, without any idea of sarcasm:
“Who was the murderer, then?”
“I don’t know. At least, I’m not sure,” answered Golbourne thoughtfully. “But could you, Inspector, obtain from the Admiralty the address of Sebastian Sanchez? He’s a Spaniard by birth, a naturalized Englishman now. We might call on him. He came over from Brazil just before the War, and was employed at the Admiralty during hostilities. I worked with him there.”
Scotland Yard can obtain any information it wants, and within a minute, over the ‘phone, Inspector Mirch was answered.
“Forty-two Kentish Square, Camden Town, is where Mr Sanchez lives, or did live at any rate, during the time he was employed at the Admiralty.”
“Right! Then we’ll go and call on him, Inspector, if you can spare the time. But, first of all, I’d like to have a chat with Sir George’s chauffeur. I suppose you know where he is?”
“Yes, we’re keeping an eye on him, of course. I told him not to be far away from his garage. We’ll go down there and see him.”
“Good! Come along, Bowen, you’ll see this through with me, won’t you? We’ll come back to
At the garage near Sloane Square, Golbourne put a few searching questions to Edward Morris, the chauffeur.
“No, the car didn’t stop anywhere during the journey from Piccadilly to the Law Courts,” said the man. “There was just a little bit of a hold-up at Wellington Street, not enough to actually stop the car, but we had to go very slowly.”
“Ah! Now, can you tell me what sort of a vehicle was exactly in front of you during that block?”
“Yes, sir; it was a van, a fruit van, full of empty orange-boxes. I’ve often seen that same van coming back from Covent Garden at just about the same time when I used to drive my master down. I’ve noticed it for a long time, because it was always so very badly driven and used to get in my way, like it did yesterday morning, when it nearly shaved my front off-wheel when it sneaked in just ahead of me, as it had no right to do.”
“Oh! And was there any name on the car – a covered van I suppose it was, open at the back?”
“That’s right, sir, and the name on it was Sanchez. I remember that quite well, because I vowed once that I’d write to Mr Sanchez and tell him about the nuisance his driver so often was.”
“You didn’t notice anything extraordinary during that little temporary slowdown, did you?”
“No, sir, nothing.”
“Did you turn your head at all?”
The chauffeur considered for a minute.
“Well, I do remember turning round.” Morris allowed himself a little smile. “Because I heard a mate – a pal of mine – toot his horn in a comic way he often does. I meet him most mornings, and I just looked round to give him a nod, but that was all.”
That finished the interview with the chauffeur, and when Mr Bowen, the professor, and the inspector were in the cab again, Golbourne spoke very seriously.
“I’m going to take a risk with this man, Sanchez, Inspector,” he said. “That’s why I want you with me, in case there should be unpleasantness afterwards, or that I am mistaken. I’m only carrying out an idea of my own. Anyway, you’ll keep your eye on the gentleman we’re going to visit, won’t you? I’m not much good at self-defence, or anything of that sort.”
“All right, sir, I’ll keep my eye on him.”
Sebastian Sanchez, a tall, slim, swarthy man of about sixty-five years of age, received Golbourne with out-stretched hand and a smile, and bowed, with the courtesy of his race, to Inspector Mirch and Mr Bowen.
“And to what am I indebted for the pleasure of a visit from my old colleague, Professor Golbourne?” he asked in a smooth, even voice.
“Well, Sanchez, this is going to be a business talk, so why shouldn’t we sit down?” began Golbourne affably. “Mr Sanchez and I,” he said, turning to the others, “were working together at the Admiralty during the War. We were engaged on certain experiments.”
“Yes,” Sanchez smiled a little. “You, the professor of mathematics from the north of Scotland; I, by virtue of my experiments in the same line in Brazil, and as a naturalized Englishman. We worked well together, too, eh? But why-”
“Why am I here now?” Golbourne’s foot went out and touched Mirch’s, who imperceptibly edged his chair a little closer to the Spaniard’s. “Well, I was thinking about that invention which was put before us concerning the discharge of missiles by means of compressed air. You remember it?”
Mirch moved a little in his chair and Bowen bit his under-lip.
“Yes.” Sanchez’s eyes narrowed and then turned to a corner by his desk where stood against the wall what looked like a long, black walking stick with a crutch handle. “Yes.”
His hand stretched out a little as if to reach for the stick, but instinct and training impelled Mirch to snatch at it himself, and Sanchez rolled his eyes, the whites showing, tinged with yellow.
“These are strange proceedings in a gentleman’s house!” he said at length. “I await your explanation, professor.”
“In an interview such as this, Sanchez, witnesses are necessary. This is Inspector Mirch of Scotland Yard, and this is the Rev. Thomas Bowen, a very old friend of mine. Both are gentlemen of repute, whose evidence would be accepted in a court of law as to what took place at this interview.”
Mirch placed the black stick on the floor between his own chair and Mr Bowen’s. Then, leaning over, with professional dexterity, he patted Sanchez on the body from head to foot.
“That’s all right,” said the inspector, “no guns, or anything of that sort! Go on, Mr Golbourne.”
“As I was going to say,” continued the professor, “it occurred to me, Sanchez, that you might know something about the death of Sir George Borgham. In fact, I believe that it was you who killed him.”
Sanchez looked at the carpet, then at the ceiling, then straight at Golbourne.
“Yes, I killed him!” he said very quickly, “and I will pay. So you found it out, I suppose, Professor, and considered it your duty to, well, as you English say, give away. I don’t blame you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I took the risk. And perhaps you’re justified in tracking out an old colleague, though I don’t know whether I should have done it myself.”
“Sir George Borgham was a great and a good man.” Golbourne’s face flushed a little. “And it was my duty to make use of such memory and such powers as I have.”
“Quite right!” Sanchez seemed to be almost enjoying himself. “But Sir George Borgham was not a good man.” Again the Spaniard’s eyes narrowed. “But tell me, Professor, as one old colleague to another, how you found me out, for to me, as a scientific man, it would be interesting. Tell me that,” he
