“Find that man, Inspector,” I repeated, “and you’ve solved it. There are difficulties, I know, of which not the least is the telephone. Another is the fact that Gaunt is a powerful man: he’d have struggled like a tiger. And except for the blood there’s no sign of a struggle.”
“They may have tidied up after,” put in Toby. “Hullo! what’s the matter, constable?”
The policeman, who, unnoticed by us, had left the room was standing in the door, obviously much shaken.
“This affair gets worse and worse, sir,” he said to MacIver. “Will you just step over the passage here, and have a look in this room?”
We crowded after him into the room opposite—one which belonged to the corresponding suite to Robin’s. Instantly the same faint smell became noticeable, but it was not that which riveted our attention. Lying on the floor was a man, and we could see at a glance that he was dead. He was a great big fellow, and his clothes bore witness to the most desperate struggle. His coat was torn, his waistcoat ripped open, and there was a dark purple bruise on his forehead. But in the strange rigidity of his limbs, and in the fixed staring eyes, he resembled exactly the unfortunate constable in the room opposite.
A foot or so away from his head was a broadish-brimmed hat, and MacIver turned it over with his foot. Then he bent down to examine it.
“I’m thinking, Mr. Stockton,” he remarked grimly, “that we’ve done what you wanted to do. We’ve found the Australian. That hat was made in Sydney.”
He whistled softly under his breath.
“And that effectively knocks both our hypotheses out of court.”
He made a sudden dart into the corner.
“Constable, give me those tongs. I guess I’m not touching anything I can avoid in this house tonight.”
He took the tongs and lifted up what appeared to be an india rubber glove. It was a sort of glazed white in colour, and was obviously new, since the elastic band which fitted round the wrist was quite clean, and there was no sign of scratches or dirt anywhere.
“Put this on the desk in the other room,” said MacIver to the policeman. “And now we’ll go over every single room in this house.”
We did: we explored the attic and the basement, the sitting-rooms and the scullery. And it was nearly three before we had finished. But not another thing did we discover: quite obviously everything that had happened had occurred in those two rooms. MacIver grew more and more morose and uncommunicative, and it was obvious that he was completely baffled. Small blame to him: the whole thing seemed like the figment of an incredible nightmare.
And even when Toby Sinclair put forward what seemed on the face of it to be a fairly plausible explanation he merely grunted and expressed no opinion.
“I’ll bet you that that’s what happened,” Toby said, as, the search concluded, we stood once again in Robin’s room. “The two of them were in here—Gaunt and the Australian—when they were surprised by someone. The Australian, whom we’ve suspected unjustly, fought like a tiger, and gained just sufficient time for Gaunt to get through on the telephone. Then they killed the Australian, and got at Gaunt. Don’t ask me to explain the dog, for I can’t.”
It seemed plausible, as I say, and during the drive home behind our patiently waiting taxi-driver I could think of nothing better. We’d both been warned that our evidence would be required the following day, and the constable, reinforced by another, had been left in possession of the house.
“I believe you’ve hit it, Sinclair,” I said, as the car turned into Clarges Street. “But what’s worrying me is what has happened to that poor devil Gaunt.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“If I am right, Stockton,” he answered gravely, “I’m thinking I wouldn’t issue a policy on his life if I was in the insurance business. In fact, what I don’t understand is why they didn’t kill him then and there.”
The car pulled up at the door of my rooms, and I gave the driver a fiver.
“You’ve been splendid,” I said, “and I’m much obliged to you.”
“Don’t mention it, sir,” he answered. “But I guess there’s one thing you might like to know.”
He pointed to a taxi which had just driven slowly past and was now turning into Curzon Street.
“It’s empty; but that there car was down in Kensington all tonight, just about a ’undred yards along the road. You two gents have been followed.” He handed me a slip of paper. “And that’s the number of the car.”
II
In Which I Meet Hugh Drummond
I have purposely alluded at some length to that last conversation between Robin Gaunt and myself at Prince’s. Apart altogether from the fact that he was my friend, it is only fair that his true character should be known. At the time, it may be remembered, there were all sorts of wild and malicious rumours going round about him. From being an absolutely unknown man as far as the general public was concerned, he attained the notoriety of a popular film star.
It was inevitable, of course: the whole affair was so bizarre and extraordinary that it captivated the popular fancy. And the most favourite explanation was the most unjust of all to Robin. It was that he was a cold-blooded scientist who had been experimenting on his own dog. A sort of super-vivisectionist: a monster without a heart, who had been interrupted in the middle of his abominable work by the Australian, whom he had murdered in a fit of rage; and then, a little alarmed at having killed a man as well as a dog and a guinea-pig, he had rung me up on the telephone as a blind, and fled.
Apart from ignoring the question of the blood, it was ridiculous to anyone who knew him, but there is
