“A thousand pounds in notes was also stolen,” French went on. “Is there any chance that you have the numbers?”
“Your teller might remember the transaction,” Mr. Duke broke in eagerly. “I personally cashed a cheque for £1,000 on the Tuesday, the day before the murder. I got sixteen fifties and the balance in tens. I was hoping to carry off a little deal in diamonds with a Portuguese merchant whom I expected to call on me. I put the money in my safe as I received it from you, and the merchant not turning up, I did not look at it again.”
“We can but inquire,” the manager said doubtfully. “It is probable we have a note of the fifties, but unlikely in the case of the tens.”
But it chanced that the teller had taken the precaution to record the numbers of all the notes. These were given to French, who asked the manager to advise the Yard if any were discovered.
“That’s satisfactory about the notes,” French commented when Mr. Duke and he had reached the street. “But you see what the key being there means? It means that the copy was made from the key which you carry. Someone must therefore have had it in his possession long enough to take a mould of it in wax. This, of course, is a very rapid operation; a couple of seconds would do the whole thing. A skilful man would hold the wax in the palm of his hand, ‘palmed’ as the conjurers call it, and the key could be pressed into it in so natural a way that no unsuspecting person would be any the wiser. Now I want you to think again very carefully. If no one but Mr. Gething handled the key, he must have taken the impression. There is no other way out. I would like you, then, to be sure that no one else ever did get his hands upon it, even for a moment. You see my point?”
“Of course I see it,” Mr. Duke returned a trifle testily, “but, unanswerable as it seems, I don’t believe Gething ever did anything of the kind. It would seem the likely thing to you, Inspector, because you didn’t know the man. But I’ve known him too long to doubt him. Someone else must have got hold of the key, but I confess I can’t imagine who.”
“Someone at night, while you were asleep?”
Mr. Duke shrugged his shoulders.
“I can only say, it is unlikely.”
“Well, consider the possibilities at all events. I must go back to headquarters.”
“And I to the Gethings,” Mr. Duke returned. “I hear the wife is very ill. The shock has completely broken her down. You’ll let me know how things go on?”
“Certainly, sir. Immediately I have anything to report, you shall hear it.”
The police station was not far away, and soon French was bending over all that was mortal of Charles Gething. He was not concerned with the actual remains, except to take prints from the dead fingers, to compare with those found in the office. But he went through the contents of the pockets, among which he had hoped to gain some clue as to the nature of the business which had brought the dead man to the office. Unfortunately there was nothing to give the slightest indication.
The inquest had been fixed for five o’clock that evening, and French spent some time with the Superintendent going over the evidence which was to be put forward by the police. Of the verdict, there could, of course, be no doubt.
Believing that by this time Mr. Duke would have left the Gethings, French thought that he might himself call there. The more he could learn about the old man the better.
He hailed a taxi, and some fifteen minutes later reached Monkton Street, a narrow and rather depressing side street off the Fulham Road. The door of No. 37 was opened by a brown-haired woman of some five-and-thirty, with a pleasant and kindly, though somewhat worn expression. French took off his hat.
“Miss Gething?” he inquired.
“No, I am Mrs. Gamage. But my sister is in, if you wish to see her.” She spoke with a sort of plaintive softness which French found rather attractive.
“I’m afraid I must trouble you both,” he answered with his kindly smile, as he introduced himself and stated his business.
Mrs. Gamage stepped back into the narrow passage.
“Come in,” she invited. “We are naturally anxious to help you. Besides, the police have been very kind. Nothing could have been kinder than that constable who came round last night with the news. Indeed everyone has been more than good. Mr. Duke has just been round himself to inquire. A time like this shows what people are.”
“I was sorry to hear that Mrs. Gething is so unwell,” French observed, and he followed his guide into the tiny front parlour. He was surprised to find the house far from comfortably furnished. Everything, indeed, bore the stamp of an almost desperate attempt to preserve decency and self-respect in the face of a grinding poverty. The threadbare carpet was worn into holes and had been neatly darned, and so had the upholstery of the two rather upright easy chairs. The leg of the third chair was broken and had been mended with nails and wire. Everything was shabby, though spotlessly clean and evidently looked after with the utmost care. Though the day was bitter, no spark of fire burned in the grate. Here, the Inspector thought, was certainly a matter to be inquired into. If Gething was really as poor a man as this furniture seemed to indicate, it undoubtedly would have a bearing on the problem.
“My mother has been an invalid for many years,” Mrs. Gamage answered, unconsciously supplying the explanation French wanted. “She suffers from a diseased hip bone and will never be well. My poor father spent a small fortune on doctors and treatment for her, but I don’t think any of them did her much good. Now this news
