Roger shrugged his shoulders in mock despair. “And so should I! That’s what makes it all the more extraordinary. Yet of course she was lying. Like a trooper! And so ridiculously! Her story’s bound to be disproved as soon as the safe is opened. She must have said the first thing that came into her head. Alec, my son, there’s something damned queer going on here! Mrs. Plant isn’t the only one who’s lying. Come out into the garden and listen to the duplicity of Jefferson.”
IV
Major Jefferson Is Reluctant
Inspector Mansfield, of the Elchester police, was a methodical person. He knew exactly what he had to do, and just how to do it. And he had precisely as much imagination as was required for his job, and not a fraction more. Too much imagination can be a very severe handicap to a conscientious policeman, in spite of what the detective stories may say.
As the inspector entered the library with Jefferson from the hall, Roger, who had heard his arrival and was determined to miss no more of this interesting situation than he could possibly help, contrived to present himself at the French windows, the faithful Alec still in tow.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he said cheerfully.
Jefferson frowned slightly; perhaps he was remembering his last words to Roger. “These are Mr. Sheringham and Mr. Grierson, Inspector,” he said a little brusquely. “They were present when we broke the door in.”
The inspector nodded. “Good morning, gentlemen. Sad business, this. Very.” He glanced rapidly round the room. “Ah, there’s the body. Excuse me, Major.”
He stepped quickly across and bent over the figure in the chair, examining it attentively. Then he dropped on his knees and scrutinised the hand that held the revolver.
“Mustn’t touch anything till the doctor’s seen him,” he explained briefly, rising to his feet again and dusting the knees of his trousers. “May I have a look at that document you spoke of, sir?”
“Certainly, Inspector. It’s on the table.”
Jefferson showed where the paper was lying, and the inspector picked it up. Roger edged farther into the room. The presence of himself and Alec had not been challenged, and he wished to establish his right to be there. Furthermore, he was uncommonly curious to hear the inspector’s views on the somewhat remarkable document he was now studying.
The inspector looked up. “H’m!” he observed noncommittally, laying the paper on the table again. “To the point, at any rate. Was Mr. Stanworth in the habit of using a typewriter instead of pen and ink?”
“Just the point I mentioned, Inspector,” Roger broke in.
“Indeed, sir?” said the inspector politely. He turned to Jefferson. “Do you happen to know, Major Jefferson?”
“Yes, I think he was,” Jefferson said thoughtfully. “He certainly always wrote his letters on it. I fancy he used it a good deal.”
“But to sit down and type a thing like that!” Roger exclaimed. “It seems so unnecessary somehow.”
“And what do you make of it then, Mr. Sheringham?” the inspector asked with tolerant interest.
“I should say it showed a cold-blooded deliberation that proves Mr. Stanworth to have been a very exceptional man,” Roger replied quickly.
The inspector smiled faintly. “I see you’re more used to considering characters than actions,” he said. “Now I should have said that a more ordinary explanation might be that Mr. Stanworth, having already something else to type on the machine, slipped in a piece of paper and did that at the same time.”
“Oh!” Roger remarked, somewhat nonplussed. “Yes, I never thought of that.”
“It’s extraordinary what simple things one doesn’t think of at times,” said the inspector wisely.
“But in that case,” Roger observed thoughtfully, “wouldn’t you expect to find the other thing he had been typing? It can hardly have left the room, can it?”
“That’s impossible to say,” said the inspector, with the air of one closing the subject. “We don’t in the least know what Mr. Stanworth did last night. He might have gone out and posted a letter or two before he shot himself; and unless anyone happened to see him we could never know whether he did or not. Now I take it, sir,” he added, turning to Major Jefferson, “that Mr. Stanworth was a rather brusque, decisive sort of man?”
Jefferson considered. “Decisive, certainly. But I don’t know whether you would call him brusque exactly. Why?”
“The wording of this statement. It’s a bit—well, out of the ordinary, isn’t it?”
“It’s quite typical,” said Jefferson shortly.
“It is? That’s what I’m getting at. Now have you any idea at all as to the reasons he hints at?”
“Not in the least. I’m absolutely in the dark.”
“Ah! Well, perhaps Lady Stanworth will be able to throw some light on that point later.” He strolled over to the door and began to examine the lock.
Roger drew Alec aside. “You know, this is jolly interesting, this business,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen the police at work before. But the story books are all wrong. This man isn’t a fool by any means; very far from it. He caught me out properly over that typing; and twice at that. Perfectly obvious points when they’re mentioned, of course; and I can’t think why they didn’t occur to me. That’s the trouble with an idée fixe; you can’t see beyond it, or even round it. Hullo; he’s trying the windows now.”
The inspector had crossed the room and was testing the fastenings of the French windows. “You said all these were fastened when you got in as well as the door, sir?” he remarked to Jefferson.
“Yes. But Mr. Sheringham can answer for that better than I. He opened them.”
The inspector flashed a quick glance at Roger. “And they were all securely fastened?”
“Absolutely,” said Roger with conviction. “I remember commenting on it at the time.”
“Why did you open them, sir?”
“To let some air into the place. It smelt of death, if you know what I mean.”
The inspector nodded as if the explanation satisfied him, and at
