“That certainly seems to need explaining,” Una admitted. “Can you throw any light on it, Foxy? You’re the only one of us who was near the case.”
There was no hint of accusation in her tone; but Foxy seemed to read an insinuation into her remark.
“I haven’t got the replicas, if that’s what you mean, Una,” he protested angrily. “I just took what was left—and it turns out to be the real things. Whoever was ahead of me took the duds.”
Cecil considered the point, and then appealed to Sir Clinton.
“Doesn’t that seem to show that an outsider’s been at work—someone who knew a certain amount about the collection, but not quite enough? An outsider wouldn’t know we had the replicas in the case alongside the real things. He’d just grab three medallions and think he’d got away with it.”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“Your hypothetical outsider, Cecil, must have had a preliminary look at the case before the lights went out—just to make sure of getting to the right spot in the dark. Therefore he must have seen the six medallions there; and he’d have taken the lot instead of only three, when he had his chance.”
“That upsets your applecart, Cecil,” said Joan. “It’s obvious Sir Clinton’s right. Unless”—a fresh idea seemed to strike her—“unless the thief knew of the replicas and had wrong information, so that he imagined he was taking the Leonardos when he really was grabbing the replicas. I mean he may have thought that the replicas were in the top row instead of the lower one.”
She glanced at Sir Clinton’s face to see what he thought of her suggestion; but he betrayed nothing.
“Wouldn’t you have taken the whole six, Joan, if you had been in his shoes?”
Joan had to admit that she would have made certain by snatching the complete set.
“There’s more in it than that,” was all that Sir Clinton could be induced to say.
Before any more could be said, the door opened again. This time it was Michael Clifton who entered the museum.
“You’ve got him, Michael?” cried Joan. “Who was he?”
Michael shook his head.
“He got away from us. It’s a damned mysterious business how he managed it; but he slipped through our fingers, Joan.”
“Well, tell us what happened—quick!” Joan ordered. “I didn’t think you’d botch it, Michael.”
Michael obeyed her at once and launched into an account of the moonlight chase of the fugitive. Sir Clinton listened attentively, but interposed no questions until Michael had finished his story.
“Let’s have this quite clear,” the Chief Constable said, when the tale had been completed. “You had him hemmed in at the cliff top; you heard a splash, but there was no sign of anyone swimming in the lake; you discovered a rope tied to the balustrade and lying down the cliff-face to the cave-mouth; he wasn’t in the cave when you looked for him there. Is that correct?”
“That’s how it happened.”
“You’re sure he didn’t break back through your cordon?”
“Certain.”
“And you found Maurice in one of the Fairy Houses in the spinney?”
“Yes. He seemed in a queer state.”
Sir Clinton, glancing at Cecil’s face, was surprised to see on it the same expression of almost malicious glee which he had surprised on the day when they examined that very Fairy House during their walk. Quite obviously Cecil knew something more than the Chief Constable did.
“Does that suggest anything to you, Cecil?” he demanded point-blank.
At the query, Cecil’s face came back to normal suddenly.
“To me? No, why should it?”
“I merely wondered,” said Sir Clinton, without seeming to notice anything.
It was clear that whatever Cecil knew, it was something which he was not prepared to tell.
Foxy had listened intently to Michael’s narrative, and as the Chief Constable seemed to have come to the end of his interrogations, Foxy put a question of his own.
“You say Maurice was wearing a white Pierrot costume? So was the fellow you were chasing. So was the man next me at the case when the lights went out.”
“I suppose you’re suggesting that Maurice is at the bottom of the business, Foxy,” Michael replied at once. “I’ll swallow that if you’ll answer one question. Why should a man burgle his own house?”
“Lord alone knows,” Foxy admitted humbly. “I’ve no brain-wave on the subject.”
“It seems rather improbable,” observed Sir Clinton. “I think you’ll have to produce a motive before that idea could be accepted.”
He glanced round at the door as he spoke and added:
“Here’s Maurice himself.”
Maurice Chacewater had entered the room while the Chief Constable was speaking. He had discarded his fancy costume and wore ordinary evening-dress, against the black of which his face looked white and drawn. He came up to the group and leaned on the show-case as if for support.
“So you’ve muddled it, Michael,” he commented, after a pause. “You didn’t get your hands on the fellow, after all?”
Dismissing Michael with almost open contempt, he turned to Sir Clinton.
“What’s the damage? Did the fellow get away with anything of value?”
“Nothing much: only your three replicas of the Leonardo medallions, so far as we can see.”
