“I heard it, sir. That’s why I came in.”
“Good. Who was the timid little ferret?”
“Belford—Robert Belford, sir. He’s a sort of assistant to Poole and was valet to the deceased.”
“How did he answer when you questioned him?”
“Very confused he was. But his story’s all right—very reasonable. I don’t consider him, so to speak. He hasn’t got the nerve, or the strength.”
Anthony stroked his chin. “It’s easy enough to see,” he said, “that you don’t want to be persuaded away from your idea that an outsider did this job.”
“You’re right, sir,” Boyd smiled. “As far as I’ve progressed yet an outsider’s my fancy. Most decidedly. Still one never knows where the next turning’s going to lead to, so to speak. Of course, I’ve got a lot of inquiries afoot—but so far we’ve less than nothing to go on.”
“Anything stolen?”
“Nothing.”
Anthony was still gazing down at the carpet before the sofa. Again he dropped on one knee. This time he rubbed at the thick pile with his fingers. He rose, darting a look round the room.
“What’s up, sir?” Boyd was watching attentively.
“A most convenient struggle that,” murmured Anthony.
“What’s that? What d’you mean, sir?”
“I was remarking, O Boyd, that the struggle had been, for the murderer, of an almost incredible convenience. Observe that the two chairs which were overturned are far from heavy; observe also that the carpet is very far from thin. These light chairs fell, not, mark you, on the parquet edging of the floor, but conveniently inwards upon this thickest of thick carpets. Observe also, most puissant inspector, that the articles dislodged from the writing-table, besides falling on the carpet, are nothing but light books and papers. Nothing heavy, you see. Nothing which would make a noise.”
“I follow you, sir,” Boyd cried. “You mean—”
“ ’Ush, ’ush, I will ’ave ’ush! I would finally direct your attention to the highly convenient juxtaposition of this sofa here and our friend the clock. The sofa is a solid, stolid lump of a sofa; it’s none of your trifling divans. In fact, it would require not merely a sudden jerk but a steady and lusty pull to move it, wouldn’t it?”
The detective applied his considerable weight to the arm of the sofa. Nothing happened.
“You see!” continued Anthony with a gesture. “See you also then the almost magical convenience with which, in the course of the struggle, this lumping sofa was moved back towards grandfather, who stood nearly three feet from the sofa’s usual position, which position can be ascertained by noting these four deep dents made in the carpet by the castors. Oh, it’s all so convenient. The sofa’s moved back, then grandfather falls, not with a loud crash to the floor, but quietly, softly, on to the back of the sofa. Further, those two vases on that table there beside the clock weren’t upset at all by the upheaval. Those vases wobble when one walks across the room, Boyd. No, it won’t do; it won’t do at all.”
“You’re saying there wasn’t any struggle at all; that the scene was set, so to speak.” Boyd’s tone was eager. His little gray eyes were alight with interest.
Anthony nodded. “Your inference is right.”
“I had explained things to myself by saying that the carpet was thick and old Poole rather deaf,” said the detective, “because he did say that he heard a noise like someone walking about. Of course, he just thought it was his master. I’ll wager it wasn’t, though. I’m sure you’re right, sir. I hadn’t noticed the sofa had been shifted. This is a very queer case, sir, very queer!”
“It is, or anyhow it feels like that. What about the body, Boyd? Aren’t you going to have it moved?”
“Yes, sir, any time now. It was going to be moved before you came; then Jardine wanted to take some more photos. After that, you being here, sir—well, I thought if you were going to have anything to do with the case you might like to see everything in status quo, so to speak.”
Anthony smiled. “Thanks, Boyd,” he said. “You’re a good chap, you know. This isn’t the first job we’ve done together by any means; but all the same, it’s most refreshing to find you devoid of the pro’s righteous distrust of the amateur.”
Boyd smiled grimly. “Oh, I’ve got that all right, sir. But I don’t regard you in that light, if I may say so, though we may disagree before this case is over. And—well, sir, I’ve not forgotten what you did for me that night down at Sohlke’s place in Limehouse—”
“Drop it, man, drop it,” Anthony groaned.
Boyd laughed. “Very well, sir. Now I’ll go and see about having the body moved upstairs.”
“And I,” said Anthony, “shall think—here or in the garden. By the way, when’s the inquest?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, here,” said Boyd, and left the room.
Anthony ruminated. This study of Hoode’s, he reflected, was curious, being in itself the end of the long wing of the house and having, therefore, window or windows in all three sides. As Boyd had said, only one of these windows was open, the farthest from the door of the three which looked out upon the terraced gardens and the river at their foot. All the others—two in the same wall, one in the end wall, and two overlooking the drive—were shut and latched on the inside. The open one was open top and bottom.
Anthony looked at it, then back at the writing-table. He seemed dissatisfied, for he next walked to the window, surveyed the room from there, and then crossed to the swivel-chair at the writing-table and sat down. From here he again peered at the open window, which was then in front of him and slightly to his left.
He was still in the chair when Boyd came back, bringing with him a policeman in plain clothes and a man in the leather uniform of a chauffeur. Anthony did not move; did not answer when Boyd spoke to him.
The body covered and lifted, the grim
