Then, retracing his steps, he entered the bedroom. It contained a small canopied bed facing the door, and beside it stood a night-table on which was an electric lamp. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he looked about him, and turned the lamp on and off by the socket-chain. Presently he fixed his eyes on Markham.
“You see how the Major got out without the boy’s knowing it—eh, what?”
“By levitation, I suppose,” submitted Markham.
“It amounted to that, at any rate,” replied Vance. “Deuced ingenious, too. … Listen, Markham:—At half past twelve the Major rang for cracked ice. The boy brought it, and when he entered he looked in through the door, which was open, and saw the Major in bed. The Major told him to put the ice in the pitcher in the living-room. The boy walked on down the passage and across the living-room to the table in the corner. The Major then called to him to learn the time by the clock on the mantel. The boy looked: it was half past twelve. The Major replied that he was not to be disturbed again, said good night, turned off this light on this night-table, jumped out of bed—he was dressed, of course—and stepped quickly out into the public hall before the boy had time to empty the ice and return to the passage. The Major ran down the stairs and was in the street before the elevator descended. The boy, when he passed the bedroom door on his way out, could not have seen whether the Major was still in bed or not, even if he had looked in, for the room was then in darkness.—Clever, what?”
“The thing would have been possible, of course,” conceded Markham. “But your specious imaginings fail to account for his return.”
“That was the simplest part of the scheme. He prob’bly waited in a doorway across the street for some other tenant to go in. The boy said a Mr. Montagu returned about two-thirty. Then the Major slipped in when he knew the elevator had ascended, and walked up the stairs.”
Markham, smiling patiently, said nothing.
“You perceived,” continued Vance, “the pains taken by the Major to establish the date and the hour, and to impress them on the boy’s mind. Poor show—headache—unlucky day. Why unlucky? The thirteenth, to be sure. But lucky for the boy. A handful of money—all silver. Singular way of tipping, what? But a dollar bill might have been forgotten.”
A shadow clouded Markham’s face, but his voice was as indulgently impersonal as ever.
“I prefer your case against Mrs. Platz.”
“Ah, but I’ve not finished.” Vance stood up. “I have hopes of finding the weapon, don’t y’ know.”
Markham now studied him with amused incredulity.
“That, of course, would be a contributory factor. … You really expect to find it?”
“Without the slightest diff’culty,” Vance pleasantly assured him.
He went to the chiffonier and began opening the drawers.
“Our absent host didn’t leave the pistol at Alvin’s house; and he was far too canny to throw it away. Being a major in the late war, he’d be expected to have such a weapon: in fact, several persons may actu’lly have known he possessed one. And if he is innocent—as he fully expects us to assume—why shouldn’t it be in its usual place? Its absence, d’ ye see, would be more incriminatin’ than its presence. Also, there’s a most int’restin’ psychological factor involved. An innocent person who was afraid of being thought guilty, would have hidden it, or thrown it away—like Captain Leacock, for example. But a guilty man, wishing to create an appearance of innocence, would have put it back exactly where it was before the shooting.”
He was still searching through the chiffonier.
“Our only problem, then, is to discover the custom’ry abiding place of the Major’s gun. … It’s not here in the chiffonier,” he added, closing the last drawer.
He opened a kit-bag standing at the foot of the bed, and rifled its contents.
“Nor here,” he murmured indifferently. “The clothes-closet is the only other likely place.”
Going across the room, he opened the closet door. Unhurriedly he switched on the light. There, on the upper shelf, in plain view, lay an army belt with a bulging holster.
Vance lifted it with extreme delicacy and placed it on the bed near the window.
“There you are, old chap,” he cheerfully announced, bending over it closely. “Please take particular note that the entire belt and holster—with only the exception of the holster’s flap—is thickly coated with dust. The flap is comparatively clean, showing it has been opened recently. … Not conclusive, of course; but you’re so partial to clues, Markham.”
He carefully removed the pistol from the holster.
“Note, also, that the gun itself is innocent of dust. It has been recently cleaned, I surmise.”
His next act was to insert a corner of his handkerchief into the barrel. Then, withdrawing it, he held it up.
“You see—eh, what? Even the inside of the barrel is immaculate. … And I’ll wager all my Cézannes against an LL. B. degree, that there isn’t a cartridge missing.”
He extracted the magazine, and poured the cartridges onto the night-table, where they lay in a neat row before us. There were seven—the full number for that style of gun.
“Again, Markham, I present you with one of your revered clues. Cartridges that remain in a magazine for a long time become slightly tarnished, for the catch-plate is not airtight. But a fresh box of cartridges is well sealed, and its contents retain their lustre much longer.”
He pointed to the first cartridge that had rolled out of the magazine.
“Observe that this one cartridge—the last to be inserted into the magazine—is a bit brighter than its fellows. The inf’rence is—you’re an adept at inf’rences, y’ know—that it is a newer cartridge, and was placed in the magazine rather recently.”
He looked straight into Markham’s eyes.
“It was placed there to take the place of the
