“I’ve just been in communication with the coroner,” Sir Clinton explained. “I’ve pointed out to him that possibly we may have further evidence for the inquest on Foss; and I suggested that he might confine himself to formalities as far as possible and then adjourn for a day or two. It means keeping Marden and the chauffeur here for a little longer; but they can stay at Ravensthorpe. Miss Chacewater has no objections to that. She agreed at once when I asked her.”
“The jury will have enough before them to bring in a verdict of murder against someone unknown,” the Inspector pointed out. “Do you want to make it more definite while we’re in the middle of the case?”
Sir Clinton made a noncommittal gesture as he replied:
“Let’s give ourselves the chance, at least, of putting a name on the criminal. If we don’t succeed there’s no harm done. Now here’s another point. I’ve had a telephone message from Scotland Yard. They’ve nothing on record corresponding to the fingerprints of Marden or the chauffeur. Foss was a wrong ’un. They’ve identified his fingerprints; and his photograph seems to have been easily recognizable by some of the Yard people who had dealings with him before. He went by the name of Cocoa Tom among his intimates; but his real name was Thomas Pailton. He’d been convicted a couple of times, though not recently.”
“What was his line?” the Inspector inquired.
“Confidence trick in one form or another, they say. Very plausible tongue, apparently.”
“Did they say anything more about him?” asked the Inspector. “Anything about working with a gang usually, or something like that? If he did, then we might get a clue or two from his associates.”
“He usually played a lone hand, it seems,” Sir Clinton answered. “Apparently he used to be on the Halls—the cheaper kind. ‘The Wonderful Wizard of Woz’ he called himself then. But somehow they made the business too hot for him and he cleared out into swindling.”
“Ah!” Armadale evidently saw something which had not occurred to him before. “Those pockets of his—the ones that puzzled me. They might have been useful to a man who could do a bit of sleight-of-hand. I never thought of that at the time.”
He looked accusingly at Sir Clinton, who laughed at the expression in the Inspector’s eyes.
“Of course I admit I saw the use of the pockets almost at once,” he said. “But that’s not a breach of our bargain, Inspector. The facts are all that we are pooling, remember; and the fact that Foss had these peculiar pockets was as well known to you as to myself. This notion about sleight-of-hand is an interpretation of the facts, remember; and we weren’t to share our inferences.”
“I knew pretty well at the time that you’d spotted something,” Armadale contented himself with saying. “But since you put it in that way I’ll admit you were quite justified in keeping it to yourself as special information, sir. I take it that it’s a race between us now; and the one that hits on the solution first is the winner. I don’t mind.”
“Then there’s one other bit of information needed to bring us level. I’ve just had a message over the phone from Mr. Cecil Chacewater. It appears he’s just got home again; came by the first train in the morning from town, apparently. He’s waiting for us now, so we’d better go up to Ravensthorpe. I have an idea that he may be able to throw some light on his brother’s disappearance. At least he may be able to show us how that disappearing trick was done; and that would always be a step forward.”
When they reached Ravensthorpe Cecil was awaiting them. The inspector noticed that he seemed tired and had a weary look in his eyes.
“Been out on the spree,” was Armadale’s silent inference; for the Inspector was inclined to take a low view of humanity in general, and he put his own interpretation on Cecil’s looks.
Sir Clinton, in a few rapid sentences, apprised Cecil of the facts of the case.
“I’d heard some of that before, you know,” Cecil admitted. “Maurice’s disappearance seems to have caused a bit of a stir. I can’t say he’s greatly missed for the sake of his personality; but naturally it’s disturbing to have a brother mislaid about the place.”
“Very irksome, of course,” agreed Sir Clinton, with a faint parody of Cecil’s detached air.
Cecil seemed to think that the conversation had come to a deadlock, since the Chief Constable made no effort to continue.
“Well, what about it?” he demanded. “I haven’t got Maurice concealed anywhere about my person, you know.”
He elaborately felt in an empty jacket pocket, ending by turning it inside out.
“No,” he pointed out, “he isn’t there. In fact, I’m almost certain I haven’t got him anywhere in this suit.”
Cecil’s studied insolence seemed to escape Sir Clinton’s notice.
“There was a celebrated historical character who said something of the same sort once upon a time. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ you remember that?”
“Good old Cain? So he did. And his name begins with a C, just like mine, too! Any other points of resemblance you’d like to suggest?”
“Not just now,” Sir Clinton responded. “Information would be more to the purpose at present. Let’s go along to the museum, please. There are one or two points which need to be cleared up as soon as possible.”
Cecil made no open demur; but his manner continued to be obviously hostile as they made their way along the passages. At the museum door the constable on guard stood aside in order to let them pass in.
“Wait a moment,” Sir Clinton ordered, as his companions were about to enter the room. “I want to try an experiment before we go any further.”
He turned to Cecil.
“Will you go across and stand in front of the case in which the Muramasa sword used to be kept? You’ll find the sheath still in the case.
