“No, I would have told you that,” said Martha, shifting in her chair. “I doubt they would have been done with me in time for me to come ask your help this morning. I suppose eventually they’ll want to search the apartment again, and they’ll probably ask me some more questions then. It’s a shame we didn’t find anything worth our time, but I suppose that means they won’t find much of anything, either.”
“I would think that anything that escaped all three of us, as well as the police search last night, must be very small indeed,” I pointed out.
“Very small, or very innocent-looking,” agreed Mr. Clemens. He sat back down and leaned forward, propping up his chin with his right hand. “Let’s go back a couple of steps and think about what we’re looking for, and maybe that’ll give us a better idea where we might find it. There are two big puzzles: how somebody shot the doctor without any of us hearing the shot, and where the gun went to afterwards. I’d guess it had to be done from outside, except the place was too dark to give the shooter a target—besides which, there’s no broken glass and no bullet holes in the curtains.”
“The rapping could have covered up the sound of the gun,” I said.
“Yes, but nobody seems to have spotted the flash—it would have been mighty hard to miss in the darkness,” said Mr. Clemens. “And we still don’t know where the gun went to, since neither we nor the cops could find it . . . damn it all, Wentworth, I’m starting to think in circles.”
“We haven’t disproved Lestrade’s idea that Mr. McPhee admitted someone else to the premises, who fired at Dr. Parkhurst from the foyer, either through the peephole or with the door between rooms open just enough to take aim, and then removed the weapon when he made his escape,” I said. Then a thought struck me. “I wonder, though—what if the killer meant to shoot someone else instead? Parkhurst may have been an accidental victim.”
“I don’t even want to think about that,” said Mr. Clemens. “We’ve got to assume the killer got the man he came looking for. Otherwise—” Whatever he was about to say, he was interrupted by a knock at the door. He turned in his chair and looked over his shoulder toward the entrance. “Well, I calculate that’s Inspector Lestrade coming back to ask a few probing questions he forgot last night,” he said. “Why don’t you go let him in, Miss Martha?”
I thought Mr. Clemens was rather too confident in his prediction that the person at the door would be Chief Inspector Lestrade. But as it turned out, he was right. When Martha McPhee returned to the room where we waited, she was followed by two men—Lestrade and Sergeant Coleman, his younger assistant. “Good day, Mr. Mark Twain,” said Lestrade, taking off his hat. “Fancy meeting you here!”
“Nothing fancy about it, Inspector,” said Mr. Clemens, drawling more than usual. “I reckon you’re here on business. Don’t let me bother you, I’ll set right here and smoke my pipe.” He picked up the corncob pipe (which had gone out) and waved it at the two Scotland Yard men.
“I certainly am here on business,” said the inspector, crisply. “The Queen’s business, to be exact. Might I ask what brings you and your young friend here? This is hardly a place I’d expect you to return to, after what happened last night. Not unless you have some particular reason, that is.”
“I guess you could say that my secretary and I are just being neighborly,” said my employer. “We know this young lady and her husband from back home—not that we’re particular friends, mind you. But when you’re in a foreign country, and trouble comes a-calling, a familiar face can be a comfort. Mrs. McPhee is real worried about her husband, and so Wentworth and I came over to see whether we could be any kind of help. But you don’t have to pay me any mind—go on about your business—I’ll just smoke my pipe until you’re done.” He gestured with the pipe again, still not making any attempt to light it.
“You realize, sir, that we are conducting a murder investigation,” said Sergeant Coleman.
“Are you, now?” Mr. Clemens sounded utterly surprised by this revelation. “Why, I wouldn’t have known it unless you told me so. Now you’ve got me all interested. Do you mind if I watch? Maybe I can put some of it in a book sometime.”
Sergeant Coleman turned red and began to sputter, but Lestrade smiled thinly and said, “Oh, you can do much more than just watch, Mr. Twain. I expect you can assist us a good deal with our investigation. Since you’re right here, it would be a fine time for you to answer a few questions while Coleman takes a look around the premises. We’ll have a few questions for the young gentleman here, as well, and some for Mrs. McPhee, of course. You see, you’re all three witnesses to the matter we’re investigating.”
Mr. Clemens raised his brows. “What, haven’t you learned anything from that fellow you took away last night? You were talking as if he was the key to the whole business.”
“Aye, that he is,” said Lestrade. “But so far he’s played it close to his waistcoat—if you were to credit the rascal, he didn’t see anything, didn’t do anything, and doesn’t know anything, either. Well, he thinks he’s clever now, but he’s setting himself up to learn a hard lesson if he wants to try that game against Lestrade.”
“May I visit him?” said Martha, concern in her voice.
“All in good time,” said Lestrade, unbuttoning his overcoat. “We’ll let him sit a little longer in the lockup, and see if his memory improves. For now, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Why should I answer them,
