“It’s running on time,” Armadale answered. “It hasn’t varied a rap in the last twelve hours.”
“A practically new watch; running to time; never needed repair so far; dispatched by post with no fingermarks of the dispatcher: surely you can see what that means?”
Inspector Armadale shook his head.
“It might be a secret message,” he hazarded, though without much confidence. “I mean a prearranged code.”
“So it might,” Sir Clinton agreed. “The only thing against that in my mind is that I’m perfectly sure that it wasn’t.”
Armadale looked sulky.
“I’m hardly clever enough to follow you, sir, I’m afraid.”
Sir Clinton’s expression grew momentarily stern; but the shade passed from his face almost instantly.
“This is one of these cases, Inspector, where I think that two heads are better than one. Now if I tell you what’s in my mind, it might tempt you to look at things exactly as I do; and then we’d have lost the advantage of having two brains at work on the business independently. We’re more likely to be usefully employed if we pool the facts and keep our interpretations separate from each other.”
The tone of the Chief Constable’s voice went a good way towards soothing the Inspector’s ruffled feelings, the more so since he saw the weight of Sir Clinton’s reasoning.
“I’m sorry, sir. I quite see your point now.”
Sir Clinton had the knack of leaving no ill-feelings in his subordinates. By an almost imperceptible change of manner, he dismissed the whole matter and restored cordiality again.
“Let’s get back to the pure facts, Inspector. Each of us must look at them in his own way; but we can at least examine some of them without biasing each other. Did you get any more information out of that chauffeur?”
Inspector Armadale seemed glad enough to forget the slight friction between himself and his Chief, as the tone of his voice showed when he replied.
“I could get nothing out of him at all, sir. He seems a stupid sort of fellow. But it was quite clear that somehow or other he’d picked up the idea that Foss meant to leave Ravensthorpe for good yesterday afternoon. He stuck to that definitely; and the packing up of his traps shows that he believed it.”
“We can take it, then, that Foss gave reason for the man thinking that he was going away. Put your own interpretation on that, Inspector; but you needn’t tell me what you make of it.”
The Inspector’s smile showed that ill-feeling had gone.
“Very well, Sir Clinton. And I’ll admit that I had my suspicions of the valet. He seems to have a clear bill now in the matter of the fingerprints on the weapon. Perhaps I was a bit rough on the man; but he annoyed me—a cheeky fellow.”
“Oh, don’t let’s use hard words about him,” Sir Clinton suggested chaffingly. “Let’s call him cool, simply.”
“Well, his fingerprints weren’t on the handle of the sword, anyhow,” the Inspector admitted.
“I hardly expected them to be,” was all the comment Sir Clinton saw fit to make. “Now what about friend Foss? By the way, I don’t mind saying that I still think these two affairs at Ravensthorpe are interconnected. And one thing’s clear at any rate: Foss wasn’t the man in white. You remember he was wearing a cowboy costume according to the valet’s evidence; and we found that costume in his wardrobe, which confirms Marden.”
The Inspector seemed to be taking a leaf out of Sir Clinton’s book. He refrained from either acquiescing in or contradicting the Chief Constable’s statement that the two cases were linked.
“Foss had more ready money in his pocket than most people carry; he was in a position to clear out of Ravensthorpe at any moment without needing to go back to his flat or even to a bank. I think these facts are plain enough,” he pointed out. “And they fit in with the chauffeur’s evidence, such as it is.”
“And he had no latchkey of his flat with him,” Sir Clinton supplemented. “Of course it was a service flat and he may have left the key behind him instead of carrying it with him. One could find that out if it were worth while.”
“There’s a good deal that needs explaining about Foss,” the Inspector observed. “I’ve got his photograph here, taken from the body yesterday.”
He produced it as he spoke.
“Send a copy to Scotland Yard, Inspector, please, and ask if they have any information about him. Considering everything, it’s quite likely we might learn something. You might send his fingerprints also, to see if they have them indexed there.”
“I’ll send Marden’s too, when I’m at it,” the Inspector volunteered, “and the chauffeur’s. We might as well be complete when we’re at it.”
Sir Clinton indicated his agreement without saying anything. He changed the subject when he next spoke.
“We’ve agreed to pool the facts, Inspector, and I’ve got a contribution—two contributions in fact—towards the common stock. Here’s the first.”
He laid a telegraph form on the desk before Armadale, and the Inspector read the wording:
Have no agent named Foss am not negotiating for Leonardo medallions. Kessock.
“Well, that’s a bit of a surprise!” ejaculated the Inspector. “It was obvious that there was something fishy; but I hadn’t imagined it was as fishy as all that. Kessock knows nothing about him, then?”
“My cable was fairly explicit. It’s clear that friend Foss had no authority from Kessock.”
“But what about all that correspondence between Maurice Chacewater and Kessock that we saw?”
“Forgeries, so far as the Kessock letters were concerned, obviously. One of Kessock’s household must have been in league with Foss and intercepted Maurice Chacewater’s letters. Then replies were forged and dispatched. I’ve cabled Kessock about it this morning, so as to get the news in at once. The confederate may hear of Foss’s murder through the newspapers in four or five days when our papers get across there. He might bolt when he got the news. I’ve given Kessock a chance to forestall that if he wants to.”
“That puts a new
