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‘Yes, it’s mine. At least, I think it is. I lost one just like it only the other day, anyway.’
‘That doesn’t prove it’s yours,’ said White. ‘It’s a common enough pattern.’
‘I didn’t say it did prove it. All I said was that it looks as though it might be mine. What’s the mystery about? Where was the thing found?’
‘In the shrubbery,’ replied the Inspector.
Alan put the knife down rather hastily. ‘Oh, I see! Well, what of it? I often go there, and I dare say it dropped out of my pocket.’
‘Exactly what I was thinking myself,’ said the Inspector. ‘I wonder if you know anything about the rest of my little collection?’
Alan glanced at the desk. ‘Good Lord, did you find them all in the shrubbery? No, I don’t know whose they are. They certainly don’t belong to me. What’s that thing? A nail-file? Oh well, it probably belonged to the last maid we had. She used to file her nails into points, and paint them red into the bargain. That’s why she got the push.’
‘Yes, that’s very interesting to the Inspector,’ said White sarcastically. ‘If that’s all you can tell him, you may as well make yourself scarce.’
‘Not on my account,’ said Hemingway. ‘I’m just off myself.’
‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance to you,’ said White, accompanying him out into the hall. ‘As for that other little affair – you’ll keep it under your hat, won’t you?’
The Inspector said briefly that there was no need for him to worry about that, and left the house, a thoughtful man. When he told his Sergeant the result of his visit, Wake knit his brows, and said after profound consideration: ‘Well, I suppose one might get something out of it, sir, though it doesn’t seem very likely to me. If young White got wind of that scheme of his father’s, others might have done likewise.’
‘So they might,’ said Hemingway, somewhat acidly. ‘And then have shot Carter just to upset the scheme. I’ve come across people like that, of course. In books.’
Sergeant Wake flushed, and said in a mortified voice that he was only trying to use his imagination, as his chief had frequently advised him to do.
‘Forget it!’ said Hemingway.
Silence fell. Hemingway, sitting at his desk, drew an intricate mosaic of cubes and squares on the blotting-paper, apparently absorbed in this childish occupation. Sergeant Wake watched him hopefully. Suddenly the Inspector threw down his pencil. ‘What’s the most common motive for murder, Wake?’ he demanded.
‘Passion,’ replied the Sergeant promptly.
‘Not by a long chalk it isn’t. Money, my lad; that’s why five out of seven murders are committed.’
‘Yes, but Carter hadn’t got any money,’ objected Wake.
‘He’d got something just as important, if only I’d had the sense to see it sooner,’ said Hemingway. ‘He’d got an aunt.’
The Sergeant frowned disapproval. ‘That brings us back to the young lady: Miss Cliffe. I must say, I don’t like it, sir.’
‘Oh no, it doesn’t!’ replied Hemingway. ‘Miss Cliffe doesn’t get Aunt Clara’s fortune, by what Mr Dering tells me, and as he’s a Chancery barrister I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew what he was talking about.’
‘Well, I know that, sir, but she didn’t, did she?’
‘No, she didn’t, but that isn’t to say that others were as ignorant. What I want to know is who the old lady’s heir is, now that Carter’s been disposed of. Get me Miss Cliffe on the ’phone, will you?’
The Sergeant found the number in the directory, and picked up the receiver. ‘But, good Lord, sir, that’s very likely bringing in someone we’ve never even heard of !’ he said.
‘Well, why not?’ demanded Hemingway. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of this lot, for there isn’t a penny to choose between any of them!’
The Sergeant told the Telephone Exchange the number he wanted, and tried to put his jostling thoughts into words. ‘Yes, sir, I know; but if we go and dig out some stranger I don’t see how he could have known what Carter’s movements were, or— Hallo, is that Mrs Carter’s residence? Inspector Hemingway would like to speak to Miss Cliffe, please.’
Fifteen
Mary, rather bewildered at the other end of the wire, was unable to tell the Inspector very much, but although she had no idea of the exact locality of the Home which housed Clara Carter, she did remember that it was situated in an opulent suburb of London. The Inspector noted down this somewhat vague address, and asked her if she happened to know who managed Miss Carter’s affairs. No, she had never heard, but she thought the old lady must have some trustees – if she actually existed.
‘What, is there any doubt about that?’ demanded Hemingway.
‘I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never set eyes on her, and I never heard of my cousin’s going to see her, or anything. He only talked about inheriting her money, and being rich one day, whenever he got into debt, or wanted to get money out of Mrs Carter, so he may have made her up.’
