That the murderer had this in his mind was a new possibility to Tab. He had regarded the appearance of the key as a piece of whimsical mystifying on the part of the murderer, an act of bravado, rather than a serious attempt to save his own neck in the event of his detection.
“Carver says—” he began.
“I know Carver’s theory,” interrupted the chief. “He thinks that the murderer made a mistake in the first instance and intended leaving the pistol behind with the idea of conveying the impression that Trasmere committed suicide. He would have been more clever than that; he certainly would not have shot him in the back. No, there is the fact. I was discussing it with a lawyer only last night, and he agreed with me. The murderer who killed these two unfortunate fellows is determined that there shall be no conclusive evidence against him and there will be none until you can prove how that key came to get on the table after the door had been locked from the outside.
“Now, Holland,” his manner was very serious, “there is certain to be terrible trouble over this crime and somebody is going to be badly hurt unless the murderer is brought to justice. That somebody will be your friend Carver, who, presumably, is in charge of this case and was in charge of the other. I like Carver,” he went on, “but I must join with the hounds that will put him down, unless he can give us something more than theories. And you are in it, too,” he tapped Tab’s chest with a plump forefinger, “head, heels and eyebrows! You are in it from my point of view, especially because it is your job to show the police just where they are wrong, and you have had exceptional opportunity. I am not going to say what will happen to you if you don’t get the biggest story of your life out of this murder, because I don’t believe in threatening a man who may fall down here, and come up smiling on another case, and anyway you are too good a man to threaten. But we’ve got to get this crime cleared up, Holland.”
“I realise that, sir,” said Tab.
“And it will be cleared,” said the editor, “when you have discovered how that key got on the table. Don’t forget that, Holland. Mark that! Puzzle your young brain and get me a solution of that mystery and all the other mysteries will be cleared up.”
Tab knew that Carver was still at Mayfield; he had gone back there after inspecting the rack and ruin left by the burglar in Doughty Street, and Tab went straight on from the office to find, as he expected, that Inspector Carver had by no means completed his investigation.
“The pins are different,” were his first words.
The bright little articles were lying on the table before him, and Tab saw at a glance that one was shorter than the other.
“I wonder if our friend missed it,” said Carver. “He must have done so on this occasion though he probably overlooked the loss on the first murder. Anyway, what is a pin, more or less,” he added moodily. “Come down to the vault, Tab.”
The door of the strongroom was open and the light was burning when Tab went in. He looked at the second stain on the floor, and, despite his excellent nerves, shuddered.
“No weapon was found—he did not even attempt to fake a suicide.”
Tab told him then his chief’s opinion on that matter, and Carver listened with respect and growing interest.
“That never occurred to me,” he said, “though it is nevertheless a fact that it would be next to impossible to bring the crime home to the man even if we found him in the passage, with a smoking revolver in his hand.”
“In that case,” said Tab, “we shall never find him at all.”
Carver was silent.
“I wouldn’t go so far as taking that view,” he said at last, “but it is certainly going to be difficult. There are no fingerprints,” he said when Tab looked enquiringly at one of the polished black boxes on the shelf. “Our mysterious Man in Black wore gloves. By-the-way, I am going to keep an officer on duty in the house for a day or two, to discover whether the murderer returns. I have no hope that he will.”
He turned the light out, locked the door of the vault, and they went back to the sitting-room.
“This lets out Felling. I think I have made that remark before,” said the detective. “Obviously he was innocent, because at the moment this crime was committed, he was under arrest. Incidentally,” he made a little face, “it lets out Brown! In fact, Tab, the only two people who seem to be left in are you and I.”
“That occurred to me too,” said Tab with a quick smile.
That morning he got up to find a bulky letter in his box. It was unstamped and had been delivered by hand, and recognising the superscriptions, he opened it with an exclamation of surprise. It was dated Hotel Villa, Palermo, and was from Rex.
“Dear Tab (it read): I am tired of travel and I am coming home. Loud cheers from Doughty Street! The mails here are very erratic and I have just heard horrific stories of the pilfering that goes on in the Italian post offices, so I am asking one of the stewards of the Paraka, the ship on which I came to
