Ardsley reflected for a moment or two before speaking again.
“There’s another source of supply close at hand,” he said, as though the point had just come to his memory. “Roger Shandon had a sort of museum up at Whistlefield—stuff he had picked up on his travels—rubbish mostly. But I remember he had a pot of curare amongst it.”
“Ah! That’s what I wanted to get at,” Sir Clinton broke in. “You’re sure about that?”
“Quite. It slipped my memory at the time; but I’m quite certain about it. It’s real stuff, undoubtedly. I remember that once, a while ago, I ran short of curare and I borrowed Roger’s specimen and took some of it. I returned it to him at once, of course; and I only took a trace for use. But it’s real curare all right, without any doubt.”
“And that stuff’s lying up at Whistlefield now? Is it under lock and key?”
“No,” Ardsley explained. “It’s just lying loose in an open museum-case. Anyone could lay their hands on it.”
Sir Clinton’s face showed perplexity.
“It’s time that we’re up against,” he repeated; and he seemed to be making some unsatisfactory calculation. “I wish I’d known about that stuff an hour ago.”
He turned to Wendover.
“Look here, you must do this for me. I’ve other things to attend to which must be put through immediately. Will you take Dr. Ardsley up in your car to Whistlefield? He’ll identify the pot of curare for you; you couldn’t be sure of it yourself. And then take charge of it. Quote me, if anyone raises objections. And make a note of who objects, if anyone does. Now it’s a matter of hurry, and more hurry. You must get that stuff into your hands without a second’s delay, Wendover.”
The toxicologist wasted no time.
“I’ll get my coat now,” he said, going towards the door.
“We must stop any chance of further supplies at once, just in case of more trouble,” Sir Clinton said, when their host had left the room.
Wendover was plainly astonished.
“Do you expect another crime? Surely two’s enough?”
“One never knows,” Sir Clinton affirmed, with a hint of trouble in his tone. “I’d never forgive myself if I neglected the possibility—even though it’s a very remote one. One can’t bring dead men back to life with a few regrets, you know.”
Ardsley put his head in at the door.
“I’m ready.”
“Then let’s get off,” said Sir Clinton. “Drop me in the village as we pass, Wendover, I’ve something to do there. I’ll join you at Whistlefield as quick as I can. Wait for me there. Now drive for all you’re worth.”
As they came into the village, Sir Clinton gave a sigh of relief.
“Shops still open, I see. That’s all right!”
He got down from the car.
“Now, off you go. Don’t waste a moment!”
As the car moved off, the Chief Constable glanced along the street and then, with deliberate restraint, he lounged over to the door of the local ironmonger. All traces of hurry had disappeared. He seemed merely a casual purchaser.
“Good evening,” he said pleasantly to the man behind the counter. “You seem to stock a fairly wide selection of things, to judge by your window. I’m looking for a small drill, if you have one on the premises. Could you let me see one or two?”
The ironmonger, it seemed, kept such things in stock.
Sir Clinton examined them.
“This seems to be what I want,” he said at last. “Have you a brace to fit it?”
He fitted the drill to the brace, took out a penny and tried the drill. Then, with the hole half-bored, he seemed to lose interest in the matter.
“You don’t stock airgun slugs, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, we do, sir. Mr. Hawkhurst of Whistlefield uses a lot of them, and he persuaded me to keep a stock of them. Nobody else has any need for them; but he buys quite a lot from time to time.”
“Perhaps you keep darts, too?”
“Yes, I’ve got some in stock.”
Sir Clinton considered for a moment.
“Let’s see. I’ll take a hundred slugs and a couple of dozen darts. You might put the whole lot in one parcel—I’ll take the brace and drill as well.”
While the man was packing up the articles, Sir Clinton made inquiries as to the position of the druggist’s shop in the village; and on leaving the ironmonger’s he made his way to it.
“Let’s see,” he reflected aloud, after he had had a few words with the druggist on local gossip. “I’ll have a pennyworth of Condy’s Fluid crystals. They’re a good antiseptic, aren’t they? And about threepence worth of some carbolic solution, too. Have you any litmus, by any chance—the solid stuff is what I want.”
It happened that the druggist had all these in stock.
“That will be all tonight, sir?” he inquired, as Sir Clinton took the packets and paid for his purchases.
“That will be all for the present,” said the Chief Constable absentmindedly; and he left the shop after saying good evening.
He made his way to the police station, where the sergeant-in-charge, recognising him, came forward at once.
“Have you a room here that I can have to myself for ten minutes or so, sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir Clinton. This way.”
“This will do all right,” the Chief Constable said, after a glance at the place. “By the way, sergeant, send a man out at once to get me a small table vice—you know these portable things—at the ironmonger’s. I saw one in the window as I passed. And wait a moment—can you smoke Navy Cut? Good. Then get a couple of small tins as well.”
Considerably mystified, the sergeant executed his orders; and when the various articles had been procured, Sir Clinton closed the door behind him and set to work. His task took him rather longer than he expected, but at last it was done to his satisfaction. He called his subordinate in again.
“A glass of
