Only seven were hanged
last he returned to the hall floor and went into the morning-room.
The four guests were sitting, clad in dressing-gowns, before a bright
fire.
"This is a bad affair, gentlemen," said the inspector. "I'm sorry if
I have caused you any inconvenience, but I'll need to keep you up a
little longer. Perhaps, instead of questioning you all separately,
you can tell me right away, so I can get my report made out."
They signified their consent at once.
"It is a shocking nuisance," cried the tallest man of the four. "I
came down, like my friends, to get some money, and here we are mixed
up in a murder without a chance to put the loans through. If I'd
anything to do with the police I'd have every man out scouring the
roads by this time----"
"You are Mr. Ralph Brunner?" interrupted the inspector, quietly.
"That is my name. How did you know?"
"I thought you were Mr. Brunner. Now to the work of finding a clue.
Did any of you gentlemen hear a noise?"
Not one of them had heard anything, or knew anything, until they were
awakened by Williams, who told them of the tragedy. Brunner said it
took him some minutes to grasp what the manservant informed him of,
and he wondered if he was even now in a dream.
Oakland glowered into the fire, nodding his head profoundly and
muttering about "hard luck."
Finn smoked a cigarette and asked the inspector just where the shot
had struck Goff and if he had died instantaneously. He then turned
and explained to Cass, who was seated next him, just what happens
when a bullet plugs its way through one's forehead.
Cass did not seem to be listening very intently.
At the end of five minutes the inspector wrote out a short statement
and the four guests signed it in turn.
"Is there no clue?" asked Brunner. "Can't you get ahead and search
the countryside?"
"There is no clue yet, sir, but we'll find one. There always is a
clue."
"It looks as if the perfect murder has been committed," said Finn.
"What do you think, Inspector?"
"There isn't such a thing as the perfect murder," replied the
inspector. "No crimes are clueless. There is always at least one
clue."
"For God's sake, then, find one here!" cried Brunner; and Oakland
echoed the words, but rather lifelessly.
"We'll find one, gentlemen, never fear. Criminals take pains to hide
their tracks, but I never knew one who did it successfully. They all
leave their marks somewhere, somehow. It may be a button, a
handkerchief, a weapon, or a fingerprint. It may be a footmark on
the floor. But they always leave a trail. No man can walk into a
room and do what this criminal did without leaving traces of his
presence."
"That sounds easy in theory," smiled Finn. "But when it comes to
practical things--well, you don't mind my saying that your abilities
will have to be high to work it out in this case. You have admitted
an absence of clues."
"It isn't my abilities, sir. It's the criminals who forget some
little thing. By the way, whose cigarette case is this? I found it
under the card table."
"That's mine!" cried Cass, swiftly; and his face went white as he
stretched out his hand. "You don't--mean--you can't mean to
suggest----"
A sudden silence filled the room. The three other guests looked at
one another, then at Cass. Cass was gazing in a scared way at the
inspector. Fate seemed to hang in the balance. The inspector
laughed as he handed over the case.
"I don't mean to suggest anything, sir, except that the case must
have fallen when you were playing. You don't think I was charging
you with the crime!"
"For a moment I thought you were," said Finn, glancing at the
inspector keenly. "I don't mind confessing I thought so. And so did
my friends. As a doctor--a discredited one, but still a doctor--I
should say that Cass's heart gave him a nasty turn just now----"
"Your heart is tough enough, anyway, Finn," burst out Brunner, with a
forced laugh. "You are the only one who hasn't changed color. But
then, you are a doctor and you're tough. I never saw you upset."
"Doctors don't show emotion," replied Finn, flicking the ash of his
cigarette into the fire. "Strike the bell, Brunner, and have
Williams fetch us something to drink. It will do Cass good."
"I'm sorry, gentlemen," put in the inspector, "but Williams isn't in
the house. He has gone on an errand for me, but there is no need to
stay up any longer. I was merely proving to you that there is always
something a criminal forgets----"
"What about all the undiscovered criminals?" demanded Finn. "There
have been murders--all countries have them--where the murderer is
never found. I believe that in England the proportion of acquittals
for murder is higher than for many other crimes. Answer that if you
can."
"I think I can, sir. You see, in murder the strongest proofs of
guilt are required, stronger than in any other crime. And not so
long ago the Home Office issued a statement on this very subject. It
is called _Criminal Statistics_ and there it is stated that an
acquittal does not necessarily imply failure to detect the
perpetrator of the crime. Some juries shrink from giving a verdict
of guilty where others would not hesitate. When I handed over that
cigarette case I was just trying to show how little things are often
forgotten by anybody."
"Bah! You found the case and knew it must belong to one of us. Cass
has claimed it. What about the other three of us? You said no man
could walk into a room and fail to leave traces. I'll bet you could
not prove--actually prove--that we three were in that room."
"You forget, sir, the glasses on the table. Your fingerprints must
be on those glasses."
The inspector arose. The door of the room had opened while he was
answering Finn.
Williams, the manservant, had returned, and handed a note to the
inspector. The latter opened it and read its contents.
"Good," he said. "My sergeant has gone to fetch the doctor. He'll
be here shortly."
"Maybe the doctor will find a clue for you!" said Finn, ironically.
"Do you mind if we wait up to see?"
"Not at all. I don't suppose the examination will be long. Doctors
never are. Oh, there will be a clue, sir, though we may not get it
right away. I believe there is always a clue. Well, thank you for
your statement, gentlemen. After the doctor is finished you can go
to your rooms to rest after the upsetting business. But nobody is to
go into the library--not during the night or until I give
permission----"
"Are you staying here all night?" asked Brunner.
"No, my constable and I will go back with the doctor. We have work
to do, you know."
"The flying squad!" said Oakland, sneeringly. "By heck! And anybody
would have had men out to search the roads long ago--anybody with
sand, I mean. It's up aloft some officials need it. By God!"
"That's true, Oakland," cried Brunner. "The wanted man will be far
enough off by this time. Counting his banknotes, I have no doubt."
"Oh, we'll get him, sir, don't you fear," asserted the inspector,
confidently. "By the way, Williams, you will lock up as usual after
we've gone and get to bed----"
"Meantime he can get us a drink," said Finn, rising and stretching
his arms. Then taking out his cigarette case and finding it empty,
he added: "I'm going up to my room for smokes. Williams, you know my
taste. Whisky and soda. I suppose you three will wait up for the
doctor?"
They nodded agreement.
"It's a terrible end for old Goff," said Brunner, "but, though I wish
I could stay and see it through, I've got to get back to town,
especially now the loan has dropped through. Will you wait here with
us, Inspector, for the doctor?"
The inspector accepted the invitation and Williams brought in the
drinks. Finn came back with a supply of cigarettes for all; but they
were not long seated when the doctor arrived by automobile.
The examination was not of long duration, and when it was over the
inspector informed the guests that they could now go to bed. After a
last drink they went off, but not before asking if a clue had been
found.
"Sorry there's nothing new," the inspector admitted; and the guests
looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders as they went
upstairs to their rooms.
Williams let the doctor and the inspector out by the front door. The
constable went with them, for there was now no reason to remain in
the house. The servants had all been sent to their quarters, and
with a last instruction not to allow anyone into the library the
officials went out to the waiting car.
As the inspector and his constable took their seats in the car they
heard the manservant locking the front door. The car started for the
village; but it had not gone more than a hundred yards when the
inspector requested the doctor to stop.
"I have forgotten something," he explained. "My man and I will have
to go back and we may be some time. You'd better go on, Doctor."
The doctor made an offer to run them back, but this was declined and
the inspector and his man returned together, while the doctor made
for home.
Not a word passed between the inspector and the constable until they
had almost reached the house. It was the inspector who spoke.
"This way," he said, gruffly, pointing to the hedge. They broke
their way through. They were now in a meadow that bordered the
garden of Goff's house.
"Into the library!" ordered the inspector.
They found a gap in the garden hedge big enough to allow them to
press through. They crossed the lawn noiselessly and entered the
apartment by the open French window.
The inspector stationed his man behind the door while he took up
another position.
"Have your flashlamp ready!" he whispered.
"What's to be done, sir?"
"Wait!"
They sat like black statues in the death chamber. All was still in
the house.
An hour passed.
Through the quietness came a shuffling sound, a furtive footstep. It
came from the hall.
It reached the door of the library. The key was turned in the lock.
The door opened softly. A man glided into the room.
He moved cautiously, with hardly a sound.
He reached the side of the murdered man and bent down toward the
desk, his hands stretched out, searching for something. And then----
_Flash!_
The flood of the inspector's torchlight was but a fraction in front
of that of the constable. The man beside the desk leaped back with a
cry. The wineglass which he had touched was thrown to the floor and
smashed.
"Hold him!" cried the inspector. "We have the murderer."
"I am innocent! I am innocent!" cried the wretch who had thus been
caught red-handed as it were.
The inspector lit the lights of the room.
He looked triumphantly at the man who was his prisoner.
"You know enough of the law," he said, warningly, "to know that
anything you may say will be taken down in writing. There were five
men in this house, five possible murderers. I was certain it was one
of you. I know what you came for just now. I mentioned the
possibility of fingerprints on the glasses purposely. It was a bait;
and it fetched you."
The inspector turned to the dead body of the money-lender.
"Maybe you would like to know why I suspected one of you five? It
was easy. When we came here the dog started a row. Had the murderer
been a stranger the dog would have awakened the household. The dog
must have known the man who came in at the French window. Moreover,
there are no fingerprints on the safe door, and none on the revolver.
That meant the murderer used gloves. An ordinary country burglar
doesn't use gloves. It was a city crook's crime. But the glasses
had fingerprints--and that glass by Goff's chair was upright on its