The policeman nodded his head portentously.
“The Yard has found men with less to go on than that, sir,” he remarked. “Very likely he’ll be putting up at one of the swell hotels.”
“And very likely he won’t,” put in Toby. “If what Mr. Stockton thinks is right, and this unknown Australian is at the bottom of it all, stopping at one of the big hotels is just what he wouldn’t do. However, there’s a taxi, so presumably it’s the Inspector.”
The constable hurriedly extinguished his cigarette, and went to the front door to meet MacIver. He was a short, thickset, powerful man with a pair of shrewd, penetrating eyes. He gave a curt nod to each of us, and listened in silence while I again repeated my story. This time I told it a little more fully, emphasising the fact that Robin Gaunt was at any rate under the impression that he had made a far-reaching discovery which would revolutionise warfare.
“What sort of a discovery?” interrupted MacIver.
“I can’t tell you, Inspector,” I said, “for I don’t know. He was employed during the war as a gas expert, and when the Armistice came he had, I believe, invented a particularly deadly form which, of course, was never used. And from what he told me at dinner tonight, this invention was now perfected. He described it to me as causing universal, instantaneous death.”
The Inspector fidgeted impatiently: imagination was not his strong point, and I admit it sounded a bit fanciful.
“He left me to come and interview an Australian who has helped him financially. His idea was that the appalling power of this discovery of his could be used to prevent warfare in future, if it was in the sole hands of one nation. He thought that no other nation would then dare to go to war. And his intention was to demonstrate before the Army Council tomorrow, with the idea that England might be that one nation. That is what he told me this evening. How far his claims were justified I don’t know. What his discovery was I don’t know. But two things I do know: first, that Robin Gaunt is a genius, and second, that his claim can be no more fantastic than what we all of us saw take place before our very eyes half-an-hour ago.”
MacIver grunted and rose from his chair.
“Let’s go and have a look.”
The constable led the way, and once again we entered the room upstairs. Everything was just as we had left it: the dead man still stared horribly at the ceiling: the terrier still lay a little twisted heap in the window: the blood still dripped sluggishly off the desk. But the strange smell we had noticed was considerably less powerful, though the Inspector noticed it at once and sniffed. Then with the method born of long practice he commenced his examination of the room. And it was an education in itself to see him work. He never spoke; and at the end of ten minutes not a corner had been overlooked. Every drawer had been opened, every paper examined and discarded, and the net result was—nothing.
“A very extraordinary affair,” he said quietly. “I take it you knew Mr. Gaunt fairly intimately?”
He looked at me and I nodded.
“Very intimately,” I answered. “We were at school together, and at college, and I’ve frequently seen him since.”
“And you have no idea, beyond what you have already told me, as to what this discovery of his was?”
“None. But I should imagine, Inspector, in view of his appointment with the Army Council tomorrow, that someone at the War Office may be able to tell you something.”
“It is, of course, possible that he will keep that appointment,” said MacIver. “Though I admit I’m not hopeful.”
His eyes were fixed on the dead dog.
“That’s what beats me particularly,” he remarked. “Why kill the terrier? A possible hypothesis is that he didn’t: that the dog was killed accidentally. Let us, for instance, imagine for a moment that your friend was experimenting with this device of his. The dead guinea-pig bears that out. Then some accident occurred. I make no attempt to say what accident, because we have no idea as to the nature of the device. He lost his head, snatched up the telephone, got through to you—and then realising the urgent danger rushed from the room, forgetting all about the dog. And the dog was killed.”
“But surely,” I objected, “under those circumstances we should find some trace of apparatus. And there’s nothing. And why all that blood?”
“He might have snatched it up when he left, and thrown it away somewhere.”
“He might,” I agreed. “But I can’t help thinking, Inspector, that it is more sinister than that. If I may say so, I believe that what happened is this. The Australian whom he was going to meet was not an Australian at all. He was possibly a German or some foreigner, who was deeply interested in this device, and who had deceived Gaunt completely. He came here tonight, and overpowered Gaunt: then he carried out a test on the dog, and found that it acted. After that he, probably with the help of accomplices, removed Gaunt, either with the intention of murdering him at leisure or of keeping him a prisoner.”
“Another hypothesis,” agreed the Inspector, “but it presents one very big difficulty, Mr. Stockton. Your friend must have suspected foul play when he rang you up on the telephone. Now you’re on a different exchange, and it must have taken, on a conservative estimate, a quarter of a minute to get through. Are we to assume that during those fifteen seconds this Australian, or whatever he is, and his accomplices stood around and looked at Mr. Gaunt doing the one thing they didn’t want him to do—getting in touch with the outside world?”
It was perfectly true, and I admit the point had not struck me. And yet in the bottom of my mind I still felt
