Boyd looked reproach. “You’re being sarcastic, sir, I know; but as a matter of fact that’s very nearly exactly what he did do.”
“Is it? You know, Boyd, it doesn’t sound at all right to me.”
“You won’t think that way, sir, when I tell you that we know Deacon’s our man.” Boyd lowered his voice. “Colonel Gethryn, those fingerprints on the weapon—the wood-rasp—are Deacon’s!”
“Are they now?” said Anthony irritably. “How d’you know? What did you compare ’em with?”
Boyd looked at him almost with pity. “Got everyone’s marks this morning, sir.” He smiled happily. “Handed each one of ’em—when I was alone with ’em, of course—a bit of white paper. Very mysterious I was about it too, asking ’em if they recognised it. They didn’t: very natural when you come to think each sheet was out of my notebook.” He looked again at his watch.
“One moment,” said Anthony. “Found anything like a motive?”
The watch went back into its pocket. “We have, sir. Yes, you may well look surprised—but we have. And the motive’s a nice little piece of evidence in itself. A chance remark Sir Arthur made when I was talking to him before luncheon-time put me on to it. Yesterday morning he happened to walk with the deceased into the village. The deceased went into the bank, and, luckily, Sir Arthur went in with him. Mr. Hoode drew out a hundred of the best, so to speak—all in ten-pound notes. We didn’t know of this before, because Sir Arthur had mentioned it to the Chief Constable—Sir Richard Morley—last night, and Sir Richard had somehow not thought it important enough information to pass on.” Boyd’s tone conveyed his opinion of the Chief Constable of the county. “Well, sir, I had a search made. That hundred was missing. But we found it!”
Anthony ground his heel savagely into the gravel.
“I suppose it was secreted behind the sliding panel in Deacon’s room, all according to Cocker?”
“Don’t know anything about any sliding panel, sir; nor any Mr. Cocker. But Deacon’s room is just where we did find it. I verified the numbers of the notes from the bank.”
“What’s Deacon say about it?”
The detective barked scornfully. “Said Mr. Hoode gave it to him for a birthday present. Lord, a birthday present! So probable, isn’t it, sir?”
“Why the withering irony, Boyd? It’s so improbable that it’s probably true.”
Boyd snorted. “Now, sir, just think about it! Turn it over in your mind, so to speak. Deacon’s alibi turns out all wrong. His movements last night fit the time of the murder. A hundred pounds drawn from the bank by the deceased are found stuffed into a collar-box in Deacon’s room—a good hiding-place, but not one to put a ‘birthday-present’ in. And, sir, Deacon’s fingerprints are found on the weapon which the murder was done with! Why! it’s a case in a million, so to speak. Wish they were all as easy.”
“All right, Boyd; all right. I’ll admit you’ve some justification. Yes—I suppose—queer about those fingerprints! Very queer!”
Boyd smiled. “In fact, they settle the business by themselves, as you might say.” His kindly face grew grave. “It’s quite clear, sir, I think. That murder—one of the worst in my experience—was done for the sake of a paltry hundred pounds!”
Anthony was not moved. “And your culprit, I presume,” he said, “languishes in Marling’s jail.”
“If you mean have we arrested Deacon, sir, we have not. He doesn’t know anything about us having found the prints of his fingers. And I’m afraid I must ask you, sir, officially, to say nothing to him about what I’ve told you. You see, this is one of those cases where contrary to the general rule we should like the coroner’s jury to pass a verdict against our man and then arrest him. I’m having him watched until the inquest tomorrow, and we’ll nab him after.” Out came the watch again; a look of horror crossed its owner’s face. “I must really get off now, sir. I’m terrible late as it is. Got to report up at the Yard. Good day, sir, I’ll see you tomorrow if you’re still here. And thank you for your help. It was you and what you said in your study about it being an ‘insider,’ so to speak, that put me on the right track, though I did take your other view at first. Now I see—as I’ve done in the past, sir—that you generally know.”
Anthony concealed a smile at this attempt to gild the pill. “So I put you on the right track, did I?” he said softly. “Or the wrong, my friend; or the wrong! I don’t like it. I don’t like it a little bit. It’s too rule-of-thumb. The Profligate Secretary, the Missing Banknotes, the Fingerprinted Blunt Instrument! It’s not even a good shilling shocker. It’s too damnation ordinary, that’s what it is!”
If Boyd heard him he gave no sign, but hurried back to the waiting car.
Anthony watched it out of sight. He communed with himself. No, he didn’t like it. And where did She come in? And why, in the name of a name, had she said: “Who shot him?” when the poor devil had had his head battered in?
“That rather lets her out as regards the actual bashing,” he said, half-aloud. “That’s a comfort, anyhow. But it’s perplexing, very perplexing. ‘Do I sleep, do I dream, or is Visions about?’ I think, yes, I think a little talk with the murderous secretary would do me good—always remembering the official injunction not to tell him he’s going to be hanged soon.”
II
Archibald Basil Travers Deacon—his parents have much to answer for—was in the drawing-room. He sprawled in an easy-chair beside the open windows. A book lay face-downwards upon his knees.
Anthony, entering softly, had difficulty in persuading himself that this was the man he sought. He had expected the conventional private secretary; he found a man in the late twenties with the face of a battered but pleasant prizefighter,
