Martin looked a little crestfallen.
“That had occurred to me,” he admitted. “But I decided that in the excitement of the alarm whoever had it chucked it down where it was found next morning by one of the servants and put back.”
Meggie looked at him and smiled.
“Martin,” she said, “your mother has the most marvellous butler in the world. Plantagenet, I do believe, would pick up a bloodstained dagger in the early morning, have it cleaned, and hang it up on its proper nail, and then consider it beneath his dignity to mention so trifling a matter during the police inquiries afterwards. But believe me, that man is unique. Besides, the only servants there were members of the gang. Had they found it we should probably have heard about it. Anyway, they wouldn’t have cleaned it and hung it up again.”
Martin nodded dubiously, and the momentary gleam of hope disappeared from Abbershaw’s face.
“Of course,” said Martin. “Whitby may have put it back himself. Gone nosing around during the night, you know, and found it, and thinking, ‘Well, we can’t have this about,’ put it back in its proper place and said no more about it.” He brightened visibly. “Come to think of it, it’s very likely. That makes my theory all the stronger, what?”
The others were not so easily convinced.
“He might,” said Meggie, “but there’s not much reason why he should go nosing about at night, as you say. And even so it doesn’t explain who took it out of my hand, does it?”
Martin was shaken but by no means overwhelmed.
“Oh, well,” he said airily, “all that point is a bit immaterial, don’t you think? After all, it’s the main motive and opportunity and questions that are important. Anyone might have snatched the dagger from you. It is one of those damn fool gallant gestures that old Chris Kennedy might have perpetrated. It might have been anyone playing in the game. However, in the main, I think we’ve spotted our man. Don’t you, Abbershaw?”
“I hope so.”
The fervency of the little doctor’s reply surprised them.
Martin was gratified.
“I know I’m right,” he said. “Now all we’ve got to do is to prove it.”
Abbershaw agreed.
“That’s so,” he said. “But I don’t think that will be so easy, Martin. You see, we’ve got to find the chap first, and without police aid that’s going to be a well-nigh impossible job. We can’t bring the Yard into it until we’ve got past theories.”
“No, of course not,” said Martin. “But I say,” he added, as a new thought occurred to him, “there is one thing, though. Whitby was the cove who had the windup, wasn’t he? No one else turned a hair, and if there was a guilty conscience amongst the gang, surely it was his?”
This suggestion impressed his listeners more than any of his other arguments. Abbershaw looked up excitedly.
“I do believe you’re right,” he said. “What do you think, Meggie?”
The girl hesitated. As she recollected Mrs. Meade’s story of the discovery of the murder, Martin’s theory became rapidly more and more plausible.
“Yes,” she said again. “I believe he’s hit it.”
Martin grinned delightedly.
“That’s fine,” he said. “Now all we’ve got to do is to find the chap and get the truth out of him. This is going to be great. Now what’s the best way to get on to the trail of those two johnnies? Toddle round to all the crematoriums in the country and make inquiries?”
The others were silent. Here was a problem which, without the assistance of Scotland Yard, they were almost powerless to tackle.
They were still discussing it when, fifteen minutes later, Michael Prenderby walked in. His pale face was flushed as if from violent exertion and he began to talk eagerly as soon as he got into the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said; “but I’ve had an adventure. Walked right into it in the Lea Bridge Road. I stopped to have a plug put in and there it was staring at me. I stared at it—I thought I was seeing things at first—until the garage man got quite embarrassed.”
Martin Watt regarded the newcomer coldly.
“Look here, Michael,” he said with reproach. “We’re here to discuss a murder, you know.”
“Well?” Prenderby looked pained and surprised. “Aren’t I helping you? Isn’t this a most helpful point?”
Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
Prenderby stared at him.
“Why, the car, of course,” he said. “What else could it be? The car,” he went on, as they regarded him uncomprehendingly for a moment or so. “The car. The incredible museum specimen in which that precious medico carted off the poor old bird’s body. There it was, sitting up looking at me like a dowager-duchess.”
XXVI
“Cherchez la Femme”
“If you’d only keep quiet,” said Michael Prenderby, edging a chair between himself and the vigorous Martin who was loudly demanding particulars, “I’ll tell you all about it. The garage is halfway down the Lea Bridge Road, on the left-hand side not far past the river or canal or whatever it is. It’s called The Ritz—er—because there’s a coffee-stall incorporated with it. It’s not a very big place. The usual type—a big whitewashed shed with a tin roof—no tiles or anything. While the chap was fixing the plug the doors were open, so I looked in, and there, sitting in a corner, a bit like ‘Dora’ and a bit like a duchess, but unmistakably herself, was Colonel Coombe’s original mechanical brougham.”
“But are you sure?”
Martin was dancing with excitement.
“Absolutely positive.” Prenderby was emphatic. “I went and had a look at the thing. The laddie in the garage was enjoying the joke as much as anyone.
