Trent and the American measured one another coolly with their eyes. Both appeared satisfied with what they saw. “I was having it explained to me,” said Trent pleasantly, “that my discovery of a pistol that might have shot Manderson does not amount to very much. I am told it is a favourite weapon among your people, and has become quite popular over here.”
Mr. Bunner stretched out a bony hand and took the pistol from its case. “Yes, sir,” he said, handling it with an air of familiarity; “the captain is right. This is what we call out home a Little Arthur, and I dare say there are duplicates of it in a hundred thousand hip-pockets this minute. I consider it too light in the hand myself,” Mr. Bunner went on, mechanically feeling under the tail of his jacket, and producing an ugly looking weapon. “Feel of that, now, Mr. Trent—it’s loaded, by the way. Now this Little Arthur—Marlowe bought it just before we came over this year to please the old man. Manderson said it was ridiculous for a man to be without a pistol in the twentieth century. So he went out and bought what they offered him, I guess—never consulted me. Not but what it’s a good gun,” Mr. Bunner conceded, squinting along the sights. “Marlowe was poor with it at first, but I’ve coached him some in the last month or so, and he’s practised until he is pretty good. But he never could get the habit of carrying it around. Why, it’s as natural to me as wearing my pants. I have carried one for some years now, because there was always likely to be somebody laying for Manderson. And now,” Mr. Bunner concluded sadly, “they got him when I wasn’t around. Well, gentlemen, you must excuse me. I am going into Bishopsbridge. There is a lot to do these days, and I have to send off a bunch of cables big enough to choke a cow.”
“I must be off too,” said Trent. “I have an appointment at the Three Tuns inn.”
“Let me give you a lift in the automobile,” said Mr. Bunner cordially. “I go right by that joint. Say, cap, are you coming my way too? No? Then come along, Mr. Trent, and help me get out the car. The chauffeur is out of action, and we have to do ’most everything ourselves except clean the dirt off her.”
Still tirelessly talking in his measured drawl, Mr. Bunner led Trent downstairs and through the house to the garage at the back. It stood at a little distance from the house, and made a cool retreat from the blaze of the midday sun.
Mr. Bunner seemed to be in no hurry to get out the car. He offered Trent a cigar, which was accepted, and for the first time lit his own. Then he seated himself on the footboard of the car, his thin hands clasped between his knees, and looked keenly at the other.
“See here, Mr. Trent,” he said, after a few moments. “There are some things I can tell you that may be useful to you. I know your record. You are a smart man, and I like dealing with smart men. I don’t know if I have that detective sized up right, but he strikes me as a mutt. I would answer any questions he had the gumption to ask me—I have done so, in fact—but I don’t feel encouraged to give him any notions of mine without his asking. See?”
Trent nodded. “That is a feeling many people have in the presence of our police,” he said. “It’s the official manner, I suppose. But let me tell you, Murch is anything but what you think. He is one of the shrewdest officers in Europe. He is not very quick with his mind, but he is very sure. And his experience is immense. My forte is imagination, but I assure you in police work experience outweighs it by a great deal.”
“Outweigh nothing!” replied Mr. Bunner crisply. “This is no ordinary case, Mr. Trent. I will tell you one reason why. I believe the old man knew there was something coming to him. Another thing: I believe it was something he thought he couldn’t dodge.”
Trent pulled a crate opposite to Mr. Bunner’s place on the footboard and seated himself. “This sounds like business,” he said. “Tell me your ideas.”
“I say what I do because of the change in the old man’s manner this last few weeks. I dare say you have heard, Mr. Trent, that he was a man who always kept himself well in hand. That was so. I have always considered him the coolest and hardest head in business. That man’s calm was just deadly—I never saw anything to beat it. And I knew Manderson as nobody else did. I was with him in the work he really lived for. I guess I knew him a heap better than his wife did, poor woman. I knew him better than Marlowe could—he never saw Manderson in his office when there was a big thing on. I knew him better than any of his friends.”
“Had he any friends?” interjected Trent.
Mr. Bunner glanced at him sharply. “Somebody has been putting you next, I see that,” he remarked. “No: properly speaking, I should say not. He had many acquaintances among the big men, people he saw, most every day; they would even go yachting or hunting together. But I don’t believe there ever was a man that Manderson opened a corner of his heart to. But what I was going to say was this. Some months ago the old man began to get like I never knew him before—gloomy and sullen, just as if he was everlastingly brooding over something bad, something that he couldn’t fix. This went on without any break; it was the same down town as it was up home, he acted just as if there was something lying heavy
