“Here’s something funny! He’s got a smallish pocket over his hip, just below the trouser button. That’s unusual. But it’s empty,” he added, after an eager search.
“Let me look at that,” Sir Clinton demanded.
He stooped down and inspected the pocket closely, then stood up and passed his hand across the corresponding spot on his own clothes. As he did so, Armadale noticed a peculiar expression pass across the Chief Constable’s face, as though some new idea had dawned upon him and had cleared up a difficulty. But Sir Clinton divulged nothing of what was passing in his mind.
“Make quite sure it’s empty,” he said.
Armadale turned the little pocket inside out.
“There’s nothing there,” he pointed out. “It wouldn’t hold much—it’s hardly bigger than a ticket pocket.”
He looked at the pocket again, evidently puzzled by the importance which the Chief Constable attached to it.
“It’s a silly place to have a pocket,” he said at last. “It’s not like the old-fashioned fob. That was kept tight shut by the pressure of your body. This thing’s mouth is loose and it’s simply a gift to a pickpocket.”
“I think we’ll probably find another of the same kind on the other side,” Sir Clinton contented himself with saying. “Let’s get on with the rest of them.”
Armadale turned the body slightly and put his hand into the hip pocket.
“It’s empty, too,” he announced. “It’s a very loose pocket with no flap on it. I expect he carried his pistol there and he had the pocket built for easy handling of his gun.”
He looked at the ·38 automatic which had been disclosed as he turned the body.
“That wouldn’t have fitted into the little pocket,” he pointed out. “The pistol’s far too big for the opening.”
Sir Clinton nodded his agreement with this view.
“He didn’t use it for his pistol. Now, the left-hand pockets, please. You can wash your hands as soon as you’ve gone through them.”
Inspector Armadale stolidly continued his investigation.
“Left-hand breast pocket in jacket,” he announced. “Nothing but his handkerchief, saturated with blood.”
He handed it to Sir Clinton, who inspected it carefully before putting it with the rest of the collection.
“No marks on it, either initials or laundry-mark,” he said. “Evidently been bought and used without marking.”
“Ticket pocket, empty,” the Inspector went on, withdrawing his fingers from it. “Top left waistcoat pocket: a self-filling Swan pen and a metal holder for same. Lower left waistcoat pocket: an amber cigarette-holder. Not much to go on there.”
He turned to the trousers.
“Left-hand trouser pocket: five coppers.”
Handing them over, he proceeded.
“Your notion’s quite right, sir. There’s another of these side pockets here. But it’s empty like the other one.”
Instead of replying, Sir Clinton gingerly picked up the automatic pistol from the floor and placed it along with the other objects on the central case.
“You’d better examine that for finger-prints, Inspector,” he suggested. “I leave you to make the arrangements about taking the body down to the mortuary. The sooner the better. Now, doctor, we’ll get your patient for you, if the Inspector will be good enough to bring him to the lavatory near by, where you can get his wounds patched up.”
Inspector Armadale soon produced Marden, who seemed rather surprised at being summoned again.
“It’s all right, Marden,” Sir Clinton assured him. “It merely struck me that when there was a doctor on the premises you ought to have these cuts of yours properly fixed up.”
Dr Greenlaw speedily removed the temporary bandage which the valet had improvised.
“I’ll need to put some stitches into this,” he said, as the extent of the injury became evident. “Luckily these glass cuts are clean-edged. You’ll hardly see the scar after a time.”
Sir Clinton inspected the wounds sympathetically.
“You’ve made a bit of a mess of your hand, Marden,” he commented. “It’s just as well I thought of getting Dr Greenlaw to look after you.”
Marden seemed to have been looking for an opening.
“I’m glad you called me up again, sir,” he explained. “I’ve just thought of two other points about this affair.”
“Yes?”
While the doctor was cleaning and disinfecting the wounds, Marden addressed himself to the Chief Constable.
“I forgot to say, sir, that when I got back to the house I found Mr Foss’s car waiting for him. I said a word or two to the chauffeur as I passed. It only struck me afterwards that this might be important. I forgot about it at the time.”
“Quite right to tell us,” Sir Clinton confirmed.
“The second thing was what the chauffeur told me. He’d been ordered to wait for Mr Foss, it seems; and he got the idea that Mr Foss was leaving Ravensthorpe this afternoon for good. I was surprised by that; for I’d heard nothing about it from Mr Foss.”
He flinched slightly with the smart of his wounds, as Greenlaw washed them carefully.
Sir Clinton seemed to be struck by a fresh idea.
