Armadale obeyed, and after some cautious manoeuvres he succeeded in withdrawing the weapon, which he laid carefully on the top of the central showcase.
“Now we can have a look at him,” Sir Clinton said. “You don’t mind our shifting the position of the body, doctor?”
Greenlaw closed his notebook and prepared to assist them if necessary.
“Begin with the contents of his pockets, Inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“The blade’s gone clean through his left breast pocket,” the Inspector pointed out. He felt the outside of the pocket gingerly with his fingers.
“Nothing there except his handkerchief, so far as I can feel. It’s all soaked with his blood. I’ll leave that to the last. I want to keep my hands clean while I go over the rest.”
He wiped his fingertips carefully on his own handkerchief and continued his search.
“Right-hand breast pocket: a notecase.”
He drew it out and handed it to Sir Clinton, who opened it and counted the contents.
“Three hundred and fifty-seven pounds in notes,” he announced at length. “That’s a fair sum to be carrying about with one. Ten visiting cards: ‘J. B. Foss,’ with no address.”
He crossed over to the central case and put down the notecase thoughtfully.
“The left-hand waistcoat pockets are saturated with blood,” Armadale continued. “I’ll leave them over for the present. Top right-hand waistcoat pocket, empty. Lower right-hand waistcoat pocket: a small penknife and a toothpick. Not much blood here; he was lying slightly on his left side and it must have flowed in that direction, I suppose. Right-hand jacket pocket, outside: nothing. I’ll take the trousers now. Right-hand pocket: key-ring and a purse.”
He handed them to Sir Clinton, who examined them in turn before putting them on the central case.
“Only keys of suitcases here,” the Chief Constable reported. “We haven’t come across the latchkey of his flat, if you notice.”
He counted the contents of the purse.
“Eight and sixpence and one ten-shilling note.”
The Inspector proceeded with his examination.
“Here’s something funny! He’s got a smallish pocket over his hip, just below the trouser button. That’s unusual. But it’s empty,” he added, after an eager search.
“Let me look at that,” Sir Clinton demanded.
He stooped down and inspected the pocket closely, then stood up and passed his hand across the corresponding spot on his own clothes. As he did so, Armadale noticed a peculiar expression pass across the Chief Constable’s face, as though some new idea had dawned upon him and had cleared up a difficulty. But Sir Clinton divulged nothing of what was passing in his mind.
“Make quite sure it’s empty,” he said.
Armadale turned the little pocket inside out.
“There’s nothing there,” he pointed out. “It wouldn’t hold much—it’s hardly bigger than a ticket pocket.”
He looked at the pocket again, evidently puzzled by the importance which the Chief Constable attached to it.
“It’s a silly place to have a pocket,” he said at last. “It’s not like the old-fashioned fob. That was kept tight shut by the pressure of your body. This thing’s mouth is loose and it’s simply a gift to a pickpocket.”
“I think we’ll probably find another of the same kind on the other side,” Sir Clinton contented himself with saying. “Let’s get on with the rest of them.”
Armadale turned the body slightly and put his hand into the hip pocket.
“It’s empty, too,” he announced. “It’s a very loose pocket with no flap on it. I expect he carried his pistol there and he had the pocket built for easy handling of his gun.”
He looked at the .38 automatic which had been disclosed as he turned the body.
“That wouldn’t have fitted into the little pocket,” he pointed out. “The pistol’s far too big for the opening.”
Sir Clinton nodded his agreement with this view.
“He didn’t use it for his pistol. Now, the left-hand pockets, please. You can wash your hands as soon as you’ve gone through them.”
Inspector Armadale stolidly continued his investigation.
“Left-hand breast pocket in jacket,” he announced. “Nothing but his handkerchief, saturated with blood.”
He handed it to Sir Clinton, who inspected it carefully before putting it with the rest of the collection.
“No marks on it, either initials or laundry-mark,” he said. “Evidently been bought and used without marking.”
“Ticket pocket, empty,” the Inspector went on, withdrawing his fingers from it. “Top left waistcoat pocket: a self-filling Swan pen and a metal holder for same. Lower left waistcoat pocket: an amber cigarette-holder. Not much to go on there.”
He turned to the trousers.
“Left-hand trouser pocket: five coppers.”
Handing them over, he proceeded.
“Your notion’s quite right, sir. There’s another of these side pockets here. But it’s empty like the other one.”
Instead of replying, Sir Clinton gingerly picked up the automatic pistol from the floor and placed it along with the other objects on the central case.
“You’d better examine that for fingerprints, Inspector,” he suggested. “I leave you to make the arrangements about taking the body down to the mortuary. The sooner the better. Now, doctor, we’ll get your patient for you, if the Inspector will be good enough to bring him to the lavatory near by, where you can get his wounds patched up.”
Inspector Armadale soon produced Marden, who seemed rather surprised at being summoned again.
“It’s all right, Marden,” Sir Clinton assured him. “It merely struck me that when there was a doctor on the premises you ought to have these cuts of yours properly fixed up.”
Dr. Greenlaw speedily removed the temporary bandage which the valet had improvised.
“I’ll need to put some stitches into this,” he said, as the extent of the injury became evident. “Luckily these glass cuts are clean-edged. You’ll hardly see the scar after a time.”
Sir Clinton inspected the wounds sympathetically.
“You’ve made a bit of a mess of your hand, Marden,” he commented. “It’s just as well I thought of getting Dr. Greenlaw to look after you.”
Marden seemed to have been looking for an opening.
“I’m glad you called me up again, sir,” he explained. “I’ve just thought of two other points about this affair.”
“Yes?”
While the doctor was cleaning and disinfecting
