“Well, taking as our starting point the fact that the bullet was fired from a line which includes the chair in which Mr. Stanworth was sitting,” he began learnedly, “and assuming, as I think we have every right to do, that it was fired between, let us say, the hours of midnight and two o’clock this morning, the first thing that strikes us is the fact that in all probability it must have been fired by Mr. Stanworth himself.”
“We then remember,” said Alec gravely, “that the inspector particularly mentioned that only one shot had been fired from Mr. Stanworth’s revolver, and realise at once what idiots we were to have been struck by anything of the kind. In other words, try again!”
“Yes, that is rather a nuisance,” said Roger thoughtfully. “I was forgetting that.”
“I thought you were,” remarked Alec unkindly.
Roger pondered. “This is very dark and difficult,” he said at length, dropping the pontifical manner he had assumed. “As far as I can see it’s the only reasonable theory that the second shot was fired by old Stanworth. The only other alternative is that it was fired by somebody else, who happened to be standing in a direct line with Stanworth and the vase and who was using a revolver of the same, or nearly the same, calibre as Stanworth’s. That doesn’t seem very likely on the face of it, does it?”
“But more so than that it was a shot from Stanworth’s revolver which was never fired at all,” Alec commented dryly.
“Well, why did the inspector say that only one shot had been fired from that revolver?” Roger asked. “Because there was only one empty shell. But mark this. He mentioned at the same time that the revolver wasn’t fully loaded. Now, wouldn’t it have been possible for Stanworth to have fired that shot and then for some reason or other (Heaven knows what!) to have extracted the shell?”
“It would, I suppose; yes. But in that case wouldn’t you expect to find the shell somewhere in the room?”
“Well, it may be there. We haven’t looked for it yet. Anyhow, we can’t get away from the fact that in all probability Stanworth did fire that other shot. Now why did he fire it?”
“Search me!” said Alec laconically.
“I think we can rule out the idea that he was just taking a potshot at the vase out of sheer joie de vivre, or that he was trying to shoot himself and was such a bad shot that he hit something in the exact opposite direction.”
“Yes, I think we might rule those out,” said Alec cautiously.
“Well, then, Stanworth was firing with an object. What at? Obviously some other person. So Stanworth was not alone in the library last night, after all! We’re getting on, aren’t we?”
“A jolly sight too fast,” Alec grumbled. “You don’t even know for anything like certain that the second shot was fired last night at all, and—”
“Oh, yes, I do, friend Alec. The vase was broken last night.”
“Well, in any case, you don’t know that Stanworth fired it. And here you are already inventing somebody else for him to shoot at? It’s too rapid for me.”
“Alec, you are Scotch, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. But what’s that got to do with it?”
“Oh, nothing; except that your bump of native caution seems to be remarkably well developed. Try and get over it. I’ll take the plunges; you follow. Where had we got to? Oh, yes; Stanworth was not alone in the library last night. Now, then, what does that give us?”
“Heaven only knows what it won’t give you,” murmured Alec despairingly.
“I know what it’s going to give you,” retorted Roger complacently, “and that’s a shock. It’s my firm impression that old Stanworth never committed suicide at all last night.”
“What?” Alec gasped. “What on earth do you mean?”
“That he was murdered!”
Alec lowered his pipe and stared with incredulous eyes at his companion.
“My dear old chap,” he said after a little pause, “have you gone suddenly quite daft?”
“On the contrary,” replied Roger calmly, “I was never so remarkably sane in my life.”
“But—but how could he possibly have been murdered? The windows all fastened and the door locked on the inside, with the key in the lock as well! And, good Lord, his own statement sitting on the table in front of him! Roger, my dear old chap, you’re mad.”
“To say nothing of the fact that his grip on the revolver was—what did the doctor call it? Oh, yes; properly adjusted, and must have been applied during life. Yes, there are certainly difficulties, Alec, I grant you.”
Alec shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “This affair’s gone to your head,” he said shortly. “Talk about making mountains out of molehills! Good Lord! You’re making a whole range of them out of a single worm-cast.”
“Very prettily put, Alec,” Roger commented approvingly. “Perhaps I am. But my impression is that old Stanworth was murdered. I might be wrong, of course,” he added candidly. “But I very seldom am.”
“But dash it all, the thing’s out of the question! You’re going the wrong way round once more. Even if there was a second man in the library last night—which I very much doubt!—you can’t get away from the fact that he must have gone before Stanworth locked himself in like that. That being the case, we get back to suicide again. You can’t have it both ways, you know. I’m not saying that this mythical person may not have put pressure of some sort on Stanworth (that is, if he ever existed at all) and forced him to commit suicide. But as for murder—! Why, the idea’s too dashed silly for words!” Alec was getting quite heated at this insult to his logic.
Roger was unperturbed. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I had an idea it would be a bit of a shock to you. But to tell
