His eye traced out the line joining the bullet-mark and the lamp.
“The shot was evidently fired by someone in that bay over there,” he inferred. “Just go to where you were standing when the light went out, Mold. Can you see into this bay here?”
Mold looked round and discovered that a show-case interposed between him and the point from which the pistol had been fired.
“They evidently thought of everything,” Sir Clinton said, when he heard Mold’s report. “If a man had brandished his pistol in front of Mold, there was always a chance that Mold might have remembered his costume. Firing from that hiding-place, he was quite safe, and could take time over his aim if he wanted to.”
He climbed down the steps and verified the matter by going to the position from which the shot had been fired. It was evident that the shooter was out of sight of the keeper at the actual moment of the discharge.
“Now what happened after that, Mold?” Sir Clinton demanded, coming back to the central case again.
Mold scratched his ear as though reflecting, then hurriedly took his hand down again.
“This pistol went off, sir; and the lamp-glass tinkled all over the place. I got a start—who wouldn’t?—with the light going out, and all. Before I could move an inch, someone got a grip of my wrists and swung me round. He twisted my arms behind my back and I couldn’t do anything but kick—and not much kickin’ even, or I’d have gone down on my face.”
“Did you manage to get home on him at all?”
“I think I kicked him once, sir; but it was only a graze.”
“Pity,” Sir Clinton said. “It would have always been something gained if you’d marked him with a good bruise.”
“Oh, there’ll be a mark, if that’s all you want, sir. But it wouldn’t prevent him runnin’ at all.”
“And then?” Sir Clinton brought Mold back to his story.
“Then, almost at once when the lights went out, I heard glass breakin’—just as if you’d heaved a stone through a window. It seemed to me—but I couldn’t take my oath on it—as if there was two smashes, one after t’other. I couldn’t be sure. Then there was a lot of scufflin’ in the dark; but who did it, I couldn’t rightly say. I was busy tryin’ to get free from the man who was holdin’ me then.”
Sir Clinton moved over to the rifled compartment and inspected the broken glass thoughtfully for a moment or two.
“Are you looking for finger-marks?” asked Joan, as she came to his side.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“Not much use hunting for finger-marks round here. Remember how many people must have leaned on this case at one time or other during the evening, when they were looking at the collection before the robbery. Finger-prints would prove nothing against anyone in particular, I’m afraid, Joan. What I’m really trying to find is some evidence confirming Mold’s notion that he heard two smashes after the light went out. It certainly looks as if he were right. If you look at the way that bit of glass there is cracked, you’ll see two series of lines in it. It might have been cracked here”—he pointed with his finger—“first of all: long cracks radiating from a smash over in this direction. Then there was a second blow—about here—which snapped off the apices of the spears of glass left after the first smash. But that really proves nothing. The same man might easily have hit the pane twice.”
He turned back to the keeper.
“Can you give me an estimate, Mold, of how long it was between the two crashes you heard?”
Mold considered carefully before replying.
“So far’s I can remember, Sir Clinton, it was about five seconds. But I’ll not take my oath on it.”
“I wish you could be surer,” said the Chief Constable. “If it really was five seconds, it certainly looks like two separate affairs. A man smashing glass with repeated blows wouldn’t wait five seconds between them.
He scanned the broken glass again.
“There’s a lot of jagged stuff round the edge of the hole but no blood, so far as I can see. The fellow must have worn a thick glove if he got his hand in there in the dark without cutting himself in the hurry.”
He turned back to the keeper.
“You can go outside, Mold, and keep people off the doorstep for a minute or two. Perhaps we shall have news of the man-hunt soon. If anyone wants to see me on business, let him in; but keep off casual inquirers for the present.”
Obediently Mold unlocked the door and took his stand on the threshold outside, shutting the door behind him as he went. When he had gone, Sir Clinton turned to Joan.
“Were these medallions insured, do you know?”
Fortunately, Joan was able to supply some information.
“Maurice insured them, I know, But I’ve heard him say that he wasn’t content with the valuation put on them by the company. It seems they wouldn’t take his word for the value of the things—they thought it was a speculative one or something—and in case of a loss they weren’t prepared to go beyond a figure which Maurice thought too small.”
“The electros weren’t insured for any great amount, I suppose?”
Joan shook her head.
