  We settled down in our chairs, eager and expectant. I think Baddeley shared my feelings now. What were we going to hear that would throw light on the affair? “You’ve acted very decently all the way through, Baddeley, I’ll say that for you, and I appreciate it as a compliment that we’re running this little ‘confab’ now. I realize that to a certain extent, you have come to me for help—well, I’ll give you some. You said just now you were going to put your cards on the table. Perhaps you thought that I held some trumps too.” He paused and waited for the Inspector to reply. But the answer was some little time in coming. Baddeley shifted uneasily in his seat as though he didn’t altogether approve of Anthony’s opening remarks. Then somewhat grudgingly it seemed to me he answered the question that had been put to him. “Well—perhaps I did, Mr. Bathurst.” Then, as though he realized partly that he was exposing himself to charge of churlishness, he made the amende. “You see, Mr. Bathurst, I’ve developed a certain amount of admiration for you.” Anthony smiled. “Then we know where and how we stand. In the first place, Inspector—a question. When were you last in the billiard room?” “Yesterday—Wednesday.” “Care for a jaunt up there now? I’ll show you something.” Baddeley looked surprised, but accepted the invitation with alacrity. We ascended the stairs—I knew well what the journey meant for us. “Billiards”—said Anthony, with an air—“have lapsed into disfavor since Prescott was found murdered. A very natural consequence, I submit. Sir Charles and Jack have kept away, Arkwright has had a nasty attack of muscular rheumatism in his right arm—Mary Considine and Helen have given the room a miss. But Bill and I fancied a game. I fancy it was on Tuesday. Shortly after we started—one of us potted the red rather brilliantly—modesty prevents me telling you which of us it was, Inspector—are you interested?” Baddeley eyed him studiously—but refrained from replying. “That was the pocket”—he indicated it—“where the balls are now. Do you mind putting your hand in and sending them out? Thank you, Inspector. Now feel in the pocket.” I watched Baddeley’s look of amazement as he thrust in his hand. Barker’s I.O.U. was still lying where we had replaced it. He took it and smoothed it out, his look of amazement deepening. “You found this here?” he gasped. “When? Why didn’t you tell me before?” “Come now, Inspector. Recriminations weren’t part of our bargain. We found this, Cunningham and I, exactly as I have indicated—I am not pretending that I found it because I was looking for it—it was entirely fortuitous.” Baddeley made no reply. He read and reread the writing. Then tapping it with his forefinger: “Here’s the motive—gentlemen. The very link for which I’ve been searching. Prescott was murdered for possession of this I.O.U., and the murderer in his haste or excitement dropped or lost the very object he wanted to obtain.” Then to us—“don’t you think so?” “I ought to tell you, Inspector,” Anthony answered, “that I don’t quite know the actual position that this piece of envelope was occupying in the pocket when I found it. Don’t look mystified! I sent the balls flying from the pocket with the flat of my hand, before I discovered the I.O.U. Therefore, you understand, I don’t know for certain if it was down the side of the pocket say—or right at the bottom—under the billiard balls! Get me?” “Yes, I understand that. You think the paper’s position important?” “Very. For instance, if I could definitely assert that it occupied the latter position, I should incline to the opinion that it had been hidden there—not accidentally dropped.” Baddeley rubbed the ridge of his jaw with his knuckles. “Yes—that’s sound reasoning,” he admitted. “But why hide it? Why murder to get it—and then hide it? That beats me—it does.” “It wants a bit of working out,” chuckled Anthony. “Still, there’s nothing more to be gained by staying up here. Hang on to that precious piece of paper and let’s get back to the library.” Baddeley followed us out of the room. “On second thoughts,” interposed Anthony, “come upstairs once more and not down. Come on, Bill. Come on, Baddeley. There’s something else I want to tell you.” He showed the way to Prescott’s bedroom, while Baddeley trailed along in apparent discomfiture. “You’ll not be able to hand me out any surprise packets in here, Mr. Bathurst. I went through Prescott’s belongings pretty thoroughly.” “I’ll give you credit for that,” laughed Anthony. “So don’t worry on that score. I’m going to take you farther than this room—but only just a little farther. Come into the bathroom.” We made our way—I bringing up the rear. Anthony fished in his pocket and produced the cigar stub that he had so carefully preserved. He passed it on to our companion. “See that cigar end, Baddeley? That was found on the edge of this wash-stand basin—I found it there, and on this occasion I do know where it was lying.” He pointed to the spot. “And I’ll tell you this”—he continued. “As far as either of us can say—we don’t think it’s one of Sir Charles Considine’s—it’s certainly not one of his customary brand.” “Been smoked by a man with jolly good teeth,” remarked the Inspector as he studied it closely. “Prescott himself had excellent teeth—gentlemen.” “Yes—that’s a distinct possibility—I admit that,” replied Anthony. “Just a piece of absent-mindedness on his part might account for its presence there.” Baddeley nodded. “Was he a cigar smoker? Can you tell me?” “What do you mean?” I broke in. “Habitually—or occasionally?” “Either!” “Well,” I uttered, “he’d smoke a cigar after dinner if Sir Charles or anybody offered him one—I can tell you that—I’ve often seen him.” “Just so! That’s all I meant. I’ll keep this and make a few inquiries.” “By the way, Baddeley”—from Anthony—“you went all over the bedroom itself pretty systematically—didn’t you?” “I did that,” replied Baddeley. “And I don’t think I missed anything.” It was on the tip of my tongue to put him wise again—I thought of the letter fragments—but Anthony put a quick finger to his lips, unseen by the Inspector. I also caught the fleeting suggestion of a lowered eyelid. It then became evident to me that he did not intend to let Baddeley know what I had found in the bedroom. Neither had he mentioned Mary’s evidence about the mysterious watcher that she and Prescott had seen—in short, I realized that Anthony was only putting some of his cards on the table. Baddeley led the way downstairs somewhat ruefully, I thought. “I must thank you, Mr. Bathurst, for putting me wise on these points,” he said very frankly. “But if I was to say that I felt any nearer to a solution, because of them—well—I shouldn’t be taking a medal for veracity. Think I’d better start keeping rabbits. More in my line.” “Don’t be too self-critical, Inspector. A little is good for all of us—but a little goes a long way, and too much of it is bad for one.” Inspector Baddeley looked at him with no little chagrin. “You mean what you say, kindly, I’ve no doubt, but I feel that I’d like to think quietly over what I’ve learned from you to-day. Somewhere, at my leisure—I get a bit bewildered unless I can go my own pace. So you won’t mind if I say ‘good-day’?” He held out his hand to us in farewell. “Good-day, Mr. Bathurst! Good-day, Mr. Cunningham!” Anthony looked after him whimsically as he closed the door. Then we heard Sir Charles Considine’s voice booming out. “Hullo, Baddeley, what did you think of old Anselm? The inquest didn’t produce much that we didn’t know—eh—and also didn’t produce some that we did—what?” Baddeley appeared to murmur a reply that tickled Sir Charles’ humor. “Very good. Very good! What do you think of that, Jack—eh, Arkwright?—good-bye, Baddeley.” “Good-day, Sir Charles.” We heard the Inspector’s footsteps down the drive. I turned to Anthony. “You deliberately kept Mary’s evidence from him, and you didn’t show him those letter fragments I found in the bedroom. Why?” “Why? Well, I told him as much as I thought was good for him to know!” “It seems hardly fair to him,” I muttered. “He’s handicapped.” “Less than if I hadn’t told him what I did. I’ve helped him. For instance he’s got the Barker I.O.U. and the cigar stub. He’ll probably get to work on the latter at once.” This last remark was a wonderfully good shot on Anthony’s part. For Inspector Baddeley went straight into the village to the larger of the two tobacconists that supplied Considine and its adjoining district with its nicotine needs. This establishment was kept by a large florid-faced man—Abbott, by name. Baddeley handed over the object of inquiry. “Could you possibly tell me what brand of cigar this is, Mr. Abbott?” Abbott took it, after the manner of a connoisseur. Felt it—then smelt it. Then shook his head. “Afraid not, sir. But it’s just a common one. Quite ordinary—what we in the trade would call a four-penny or five-penny smoke—sold in a ‘pub’ very likely. But I couldn’t give the brand a name.” “I see! Sold many yourself lately?” Abbott’s answer was a decided negative. “Don’t sell a cigar once a week now, down here! It’s all tobacco and cigarettes with the villagers. Afraid I can’t help you there.” The Inspector thanked him and withdrew. “Drawn a blank there,” he muttered to himself, dismally. He weighed the matter over in his mind. Should he pursue that line of investigation any farther? It seemed to him that it would prove, in all probability, a fruitless one. He might go to a dozen places and fail to find anything definite about a cigar like this—it might have been purchased a hundred miles away. Again it might prove nothing—it might have been, as he had been quick enough to point out—Prescott’s own—just left on the wash-stand basin carelessly. He decided to abandon it. Then the question of the I.O.U. obtruded itself again. One thing, he knew whose that was! On second thoughts that should prove very much more profitable if followed up. Confronted by that—Lieutenant Malcolm Barker might, conceivably, tell a different story. Major Hornby, too! Try as he would, he couldn’t entirely rid his mind of the suspicion that that gentleman knew more than he had so far been disposed to tell. Baddeley squared his shoulders and thrust his hands into his pockets. He would lose no time in seeing both Barker and Hornby again. This time they would find him very much more determined. Especially Major Hornby—damn him! |
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