“Before the doctor bandages you up, would you mind if we took your finger-prints, Marden? I’m asking everyone to let us take theirs, and this seems to be the best chance we shall have of getting yours, you see? Of course, if you object, I’ve no power to insist on it.”
“I’ve no objections, sir. Why should I have?”
“Then you might take impressions of the lot, Inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Don’t spend too much time over it. We must get the bandages on this hand as quick as possible.”
Inspector Armadale hurried away for his outfit and soon set to work to take the valet’s finger-prints. While he was thus engaged a fresh suggestion seemed to occur to Sir Clinton.
“By the way, Marden, you have that parcel which Mr Foss sent to the post?”
“I can give you it in a moment, sir, once the doctor has finished with my hand.”
“Very good. I’d like to see it.”
The Chief Constable waited patiently until Marden’s hand was completely bandaged; then he dispatched the valet for the parcel. When it was forthcoming, he dismissed Marden again. The doctor took his leave, and Armadale was left alone with Sir Clinton.
“Now let’s see what Foss was sending off, Inspector.”
Cutting the string, Sir Clinton unwrapped the paper and disclosed a small cardboard box. Inside, on a layer of cotton-wool, was a wrist-watch. Further search failed to bring to light any enclosed note.
“I suppose he was sending it to be cleaned,” the Inspector hazarded. “Probably he wrote a letter by the same post.”
“Let’s have a look at it, Inspector. Be careful not to mark it with your fingers.”
Sir Clinton took the watch up and examined it closely.
“It looks fairly new to need repair.”
He held it to his ear.
“It’s going. Not much sign of damage there.”
“Perhaps it needed regulating,” Armadale suggested.
“Perhaps,” Sir Clinton’s tone was non-committal. “Take a note of the time as compared with your own watch, Inspector; and just check whether it’s going fast or slow in a few hours. Try it for finger-prints along with the rest of the stuff.”
He replaced it gently in its bed of cotton-wool and closed the box, taking care not to finger the cardboard.
“Now, if you’ll send for the chauffeur, we may get something from him.”
But the chauffeur proved a most unsatisfactory witness. He admitted that Foss had ordered him to bring round the car at 3.15 and wait for further orders; but he was unable to give any clear account of the talk he had with his employer when the order was given.
“I can’t remember what he said exactly; but I got the notion he was leaving here to-day. I’m dead sure of that; for I packed up my own stuff and had it ready to go off at a moment’s notice. It’s on the grid of the car now. I was so taken aback that I haven’t thought of unpacking it.”
Sir Clinton could get nothing further out of the man, and he was eventually dismissed.
“Now we’ll have a run over the late Mr Foss’s goods,” the Chief Constable proposed, when they had dismissed the chauffeur.
But the search of Foss’s bedroom yielded at first nothing of much interest.
“This doesn’t look as if that chauffeur had been telling the truth,” Armadale pointed out, when they found all Foss’s clothes arranged quite normally in wardrobe and drawers. “Foss himself had made no preparations for moving, that’s evident. I’ll see that chauffeur again and go into the matter more carefully.”
“You might as well,” Sir Clinton concurred. “But I doubt if you’ll get him to shift from his story. He seemed to be very clear about the main point, though he was weak in details.”
They subjected all Foss’s belongings to a careful scrutiny.
“No name marked on any of the linen; no tags on any of the suits; no labels inside the jacket pockets,” Inspector Armadale pointed out. “He seems to have been very anxious not to advertise his identity. And no papers of any sort. It looks a bit queer, doesn’t it?”
As he spoke, he noticed a small leather case standing in a corner.
“Hullo, here’s an attaché case. Perhaps his papers are in it.”
He crossed over and picked up the case, but as he did so an expression of surprise crossed his face.
“This thing’s as heavy as lead! It must weigh ten or twelve pounds at least!”
“It’s not an attaché case,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Look at the ends of it.”
Armadale turned the case round in his hand. At the upper part of one end the leather had been cut away, disclosing a small ebonite disc rather more than an inch in diameter and pierced with a pattern of tiny holes. At the opposite end of the case there were two small holes side by side and a larger one above; and examination showed brass sockets inside which seemed meant for the reception of plugs.
“You’d better get his keys, Inspector. Probably the key of this thing will be on the ring.”
With his curiosity raised to an acute pitch, Armadale went off in search of the key-ring; and was soon back again with it in his hand.
“Now we’ll see what it is,” he said, as he turned the key in the case’s lock and pressed the opening spring.
