Dr. Ringwood was not particularly susceptible to flattery, but he recognised that the Inspector probably was voicing his real sentiments. All three of them were experts in death, and among them there was no need to waste time in polite lamentations. None of them had ever set eyes on the victim before that night, and there was no object in becoming sentimental over him.
"Sit down, doctor," Sir Clinton broke in, after a glance at the medical man’s face. "You look as if you were about tired out. This ’flu epidemic must be taking it out of you."
Dr. Ringwood did not wait to be asked twice. Sir Clinton followed his example, but the Inspector, pulling a notebook from his pocket, prepared to open his investigation.
"Let’s see, now, doctor," he began pleasantly. "I’d like to start from the beginning. You might tell us just how you happened to come into the business; and if you can give us some definite times, it’ll be a great help."
Dr. Ringwood nodded, but seemed to hesitate for a moment before replying:
"I think I could give you it clearest if I were sure of one thing first. I believe that’s the body of young Hassendean who lived in this house, but I haven’t examined it closely—didn’t wish to disturb it in any way before you turned up. If it is young Hassendean’s body, then I can fit some other things into my evidence. Perhaps you’ll have a look for yourselves and see if you can identify him."
The Inspector exchanged a glance with his superior
"Just as you please, sir," he answered.
He crossed the room, knelt beside the chesterfield, and began to search the pockets in the body’s clothes. The first two yielded nothing in the way of identification, but from one of the pockets of the evening waistcoat the Inspector fished out a small card.
"Season ticket for the Alhambra," he reported, after glancing over it. "You’re right, doctor. The signature’s here: Ronald Hassendean."
"I was pretty sure of it," Dr. Ringwood answered. "But I like to be certain."
The Inspector rose to his feet and came back to the hearthrug.
"Now, perhaps, sir, you’ll tell us the story in your own way. Only let’s have it clear. I mean, tell us what you saw yourself and let’s know when you’re bringing anything else in."
Dr. Ringwood had a clear mind and could put his facts together in proper order. In spite of his physical weariness, he was able to take each incident of the evening in its proper turn and make it fit neatly into its place in his narrative. When he had finished, he had brought the story up to the point when the police arrived. As he closed his tale, the Inspector shut his notebook with a nod of approval.
"There’s a lot of useful information there, doctor. We’re lucky in having your help. Some of what you’ve told us would have cost a lot of bother to fish out of different people."
Sir Clinton rose to his feet with a gesture which invited the doctor to remain in his chair.
"Of course, doctor," he pointed out, "a good deal of your story is like What the Soldier Said—it isn’t first-hand evidence. We’ll have to get it for ourselves, again, from the people who gave it to you: Dr. Markfield and this maid next door. That’s only routine; and doesn’t imply that we disbelieve it in the slightest, naturally."
Dr. Ringwood agreed with a faint smile.
"I prefer getting a patient’s symptoms at first-hand myself," he said. "Things do get distorted a bit in the re-telling. And some of what I gave you is quite possibly just gossip. I thought you ought to hear it; but most certainly I don’t guarantee its accuracy."
The Inspector beamed his approval of the doctor’s views.
"And now, sir," he said, glancing at Sir Clinton, "I think I’d better go over the ground here and see if there’s anything worth picking up."
He suited the action to the word, and began a systematic search of the room, commenting aloud from time to time for his companions’ benefit.
"There’s no pistol here, unless it’s hidden away somewhere," he reported after a while. "The murderer must have taken it away with him."
Sir Clinton’s face took on a quizzical expression.
"Just one suggestion, Inspector. Let’s keep the facts and the inferences in separate boxes, if you please. What we really do know is that you haven’t found any pistol up to the present."
Flamborough’s grin showed that the Chief Constable’s shot had gone home without wounding his feelings.
"Very good, sir. ‘Pistol or pistols, not found.’ I’ll note that down."
He went down on hands and knees to examine the carpet.
"Here’s something fresh, sir," he announced. "The carpet’s so dark that I didn’t notice it before. The pattern concealed it, too. But here it is, all right."
He drew his fore-finger over the fabric at a spot near the door, and then held it for their inspection, stained with an ominous red.
"A blood-spot, and a fair-sized one, too! There may be more of them about."
