“I suppose so,” conceded the Inspector, evidently dissatisfied.
“I expect his tale isn’t complete, of course. He could hardly give every detail. It would be a bit suspicious if he had, I think. If his tale had been absolutely complete in every detail, I’d be inclined to suspect a previously prepared recitation rather than an account of the facts. In a case of this sort, one could hardly expect a watertight narrative, could one?”
He continued his examination of the floor; but there seemed to be no other bloodstains of any importance.
“Now let’s have a glance at the body,” he suggested. “We needn’t shift it till the surgeon comes; but we can see what’s to be seen without altering its position in the meanwhile.”
The Inspector was the first to reach the spot, and as he knelt down beside the corpse he gave an exclamation of surprise.
“Here’s an automatic pistol, sir. It’s lying almost under the body, but I can see the muzzle. It looks like a .38 calibre.”
“Leave it there. We’ll get at it later.”
Sir Clinton examined the body itself. The cause of death seemed obvious enough, for the weapon still remained in the wound. A glance at it set the Chief Constable’s eye ranging over the museum cases. He retreated from the bay and searched for a time until he found what he was looking for: an empty sheath in an unlocked case. Without touching the sheath, he scanned the Japanese inscription on its surface.
“So that’s the thing?”
The Inspector had come across to his side and stood looking at the sheath.
“So the thing’s one of the specimens?” he asked.
“Yes. Don’t touch it, Inspector. We may as well see whose fingerprints are on it, though it’s quite on the cards that it’s been handled by other people lately as well as the murderer. It’s rather a show specimen, you see—one of Muramasa’s making. This was the sword they were discussing when they were out on the terrace. Muramasa’s weapons have the name of being unlucky; and this one seems to bear out the legend.”
The Inspector looked at the sheath with apparent care, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.
“Nobody could have got away from here through the windows,” he observed, rather irrelevantly. “They’re all barred outside, and the catches are fast on the sashes.”
Evidently Sir Clinton had noticed this in the course of his previous search, for he gave a tacit assent to the Inspector’s statement without even glancing up at the windows.
“Here are the sheets of rubbing-paper that Foss was using,” the Inspector went on, picking them up as he spoke. “They’ll have his fingerprints on them, so I’ll stow them away. We might need them. One never knows.”
“We can get actual prints from the body if we need them,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “You don’t suppose it’s a suicide case, do you?”
The Inspector was too wary to throw himself open to attack. He contented himself with putting the papers away carefully in his pocketbook.
“Fingerprints will be useful, though,” Sir Clinton went on. “At the earliest possible moment, Inspector, I want you to get prints from the fingers of everyone in the house. Start with Miss Chacewater. She’ll agree to let you take hers without any trouble; and after that you can go on to Mr. Clifton and so down the scale. We’ve no authority for insisting, of course; but you can make a note if anyone objects. I expect you’ll get the lot without difficulty.”
At this moment Mold opened the door to admit the police surgeon; and Sir Clinton broke off in order to explain the state of affairs to him. Dr. Greenlaw was a businesslike person who wasted no time. While Sir Clinton was speaking, he knelt down beside the corpse and made a cursory examination of it. When he rose to his feet again, he seemed satisfied.
“That sword appears to have entered the thorax between the fifth and sixth ribs,” he pointed out. “It’s pierced the left lung, evidently; you notice the blood-foam on his lips? And most probably it’s penetrated right into the heart as well. It looks as if it had; but of course I’ll need to carry out a P.M. before I can give you exact details.”
“I suppose we can take out the sword before we shift the body?” asked the Inspector. “We want to examine it before anyone else touches it.”
“Certainly,” Greenlaw replied. “You can see for yourselves what happened. He was struck from the front by a right-handed man—a fairly heavy blow, I should judge from the depth to which that sword has buried itself. There’s no sign of a twist in the wound, which looks as though he went down under it at once. Quite possibly the base of the skull may have been fractured on the floor by the force of his fall. We’ll see when we come to the P.M. But in any case that wound alone would be quite sufficient to cause almost immediate death. It’s a blade almost as broad as a bayonet, as you can see. I’ll go into the whole thing carefully when I can make a thorough examination. You’ll have him sent down to the mortuary, of course?”
“As soon as we’ve finished our work here.”
“Good. I’ll make a note or two now, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll leave you to get on. As things are, there’s nothing there which you couldn’t see for yourselves.”
He took out a pocketbook and began to jot down his notes.
“Just a moment, doctor,” Sir Clinton interposed. “I’ve got a patient for you here. I’d like you to have a look at his hand and bandage up some cuts before you go.”
Greenlaw nodded in agreement and went on with his note-taking.
“Now, Inspector,” Sir Clinton continued, “we’d better get this sword out. Be sure
