That something kept jogging in his mind; something about the mark that was indefinably wrong because the mark itself was so undoubtedly right.
Beside him the door opened. He straightened his back and turned to see Sir Arthur.
“Hallo, Gethryn. Can I come in? Thought you might be in here. Turn me out if you’d rather be alone.”
“No, no,” said Anthony. “Come in. I’m here because I wanted to look at something and because it was the best way of escape. What sweetness! I feel quite sticky, I do!”
Sir Arthur smiled. “Dodo Mainwaring, eh? I caught a glimpse of her. What d’you think?”
Anthony raised one eyebrow.
“Exactly,” said Sir Arthur. “If that woman doesn’t go soon I won’t wait for Laura, I’ll pack her off myself.”
“Ah, yes,” Anthony said vaguely, looking down at the table. “I say, have you seen the Bow and Arrow?”
“Eh? What?”
“The wood-rasp.”
Sir Arthur shivered. “Oh, yes. Yes, I have. It was an exhibit at the inquest.”
“What was the size of it?”
“Well, I believe it’s about the biggest made. Usual short, thick handle with a blade of about a foot long and perhaps two inches wide.”
Anthony pointed to the table. “Did it make this mark?” he asked.
“Of course. Why, all that came out at the inquest. Weren’t—”
“I’ve got it!” cried Anthony, and slapped his thigh.
“What’s that? What’s that? Have you thought—found something?”
“I have and I have. Now, another thing: was the handle of the thing old and battered and worn at the edges and filthy and split?”
Sir Arthur smiled. “No; I’m afraid you’re wrong there, Gethryn. It was almost brand-new.”
“Exactly!” said Anthony. “Exactly. All polished and convenient. Oh, ours is a nice case, ours is!”
“My dear boy, I’m afraid you go too fast for me.” Sir Arthur was puzzled.
“That’s nothing,” Anthony said. “I go a damn sight too fast for myself sometimes.”
“But what are you driving at? What’s all this about the wood-rasp?”
“I won’t give you a direct answer—it’s against the rules of the Detectives’ Union—but I invite you to bring your intellect to bear on the position of this scar here. You’ll see that it’s roughly twelve inches by two and lies ten inches from all four edges of the table—right in the middle, in fact. Then think of the nice new handle on the wood-rasp.” Anthony appeared well pleased. “ ‘O frabjous day, Calloo callay!’ Rappings from Doyle!”
Sir Arthur shook his head. “I suppose you’re not mad?” he said, smiling.
“ ‘No, not mad, said the monkey.’ ”
There fell a long silence, broken at last by the elder man.
“God!” he cried in a whisper. “Let’s get out of this room. Gethryn, it’s horrible! Horrible! Where poor old John was killed—and here we are cracking jokes and laughing!” He took Anthony by the arm and pulled him to the door.
They went into the garden through the verandah. By the windows of the study Anthony stopped and stood staring at the creeper-covered wall; staring as he had stared on the afternoon before. Sir Arthur stood at his elbow.
“Splendid sight, that creeper,” said Anthony. “Ampelopsis Veitchii, isn’t it?”
“So you’re a botanist? It may be what you say. I’m afraid it’s just creeper to me.”
Anthony, turning, saw Boyd walking towards them, and waved a hand.
“Damn!” Sir Arthur growled. “The Scotland Yard man. He arrested the boy. Officious fool!”
“Oh, Boyd’s a good chap. I like Boyd. He’s done his best. On the evidence he couldn’t do anything but take Deacon.”
“I know, I know,” said Sir Arthur impatiently. “But all the same, he—” He broke off, turning to go.
Boyd came up to them. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Evening, Boyd,” said Anthony.
Suddenly, “By Gad!” Sir Arthur cried, and turned a bewildered face upon them. “I didn’t think of that before!”
“Think of what, sir?” asked Boyd.
“Why, something that may change everything! Look here, that’s the window of my sitting-room up there—the one over the window of the study which you say the murderer must have got in by!”
Anthony was silent. Boyd said stolidly: “Well, sir?”
“But don’t you see, man? Don’t you see, Gethryn? I was sitting up in my room, by that window, all the time. I should have been bound to hear something. Bound to!”
“But you didn’t, sir,” said Boyd.
“Ach!” Sir Arthur turned on his heel and flung away from them and into the house.
“He’s very upset because he thinks you’ve taken the wrong man, Boyd,” said Anthony.
“I know, sir. Do you?”
Anthony laughed. “I do, I do. By the way, can I see him?”
“You can, sir. He asked for you. That’s really what I came up for. That and the walk.”
“Thanks. I’ll take you down in the car. How long before Deacon’s moved to the county jail?”
“He’ll be going tomorrow sometime, sir. Afternoon or evening.”
They walked in silence to the car. Anthony drove out of the gates and down the hill very slowly. Boyd sighed relief: he knew “the colonel’s” driving of old.
“I’m afraid, sir,” he said at last, “that this case has been a disappointment to you, so to speak.”
Anthony looked round at him. “Why so fast, Boyd? Why so fast?” After a moment he added: “Pumps not working too well today, are they?”
The detective gave a rumbling chuckle. “I suppose it was a bit obvious, sir,” he said. “But you’re puzzling me, that you are.”
“What am I that I should flummox one of the Big Four? Oh, Fame! Oh, Glory! I stand within your gates.”
Boyd reddened. “Oh, don’t josh, sir. What I mean is, here are we with as clear a case as ever there was, and yet there are you, a gentleman who’s no amateur, still searching around and—and trying to make another criminal, so to speak.”
“It’s not a bit of good trying to
