Sir Clinton suppressed a smile.
“You ought to read Edgar Allan Poe, Inspector. ‘Human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve,’ was a dictum of his. If I’m not mistaken about that safe, I think I could guarantee to open it in less than ten minutes. The resources of science, and all that, you know. But I think it would be better to wait a while and see if Mr Chacewater turns up to open it for us himself.”
“But perhaps Mr Chacewater’s body is inside it now,” the Inspector suggested. “There may have been a double murder, for all we know.”
“In that case, we shall find him when we open it,” Sir Clinton assured him lightly. “If he’s inside, he’ll hardly be likely to shift his quarters.”
WHEN Sir Clinton reached his office on the morning after the murder at Ravensthorpe, he found Inspector Armadale awaiting him with a number of exhibits.
“I’ve brought everything that seemed worth while,” Armadale explained. “I thought you might care to look at some of the things again, although you’ve seen them already.”
“That’s very good of you, Inspector. I should like to see some of them, as a matter of fact. Now suppose we begin with the finger-prints. They might suggest a few fresh ideas.”
“They seem to suggest more notions than I have room for in my head,” the Inspector confessed ruefully. “It’s a most tangled case, to my mind.”
“Then let’s start with the finger-prints,” the Chief Constable proposed. “At least they’ll settle some points, I hope.”
Armadale unwrapped a large brown-paper parcel.
“I got the lot without any difficulty; and last night we photographed them all and enlarged the pictures. They’re all here.”
“You took Foss’s ones, I suppose?”
“Yes, and I managed to find some of Maurice Chacewater’s too.”
“That’s pretty sharp work,” Sir Clinton complimented his subordinate. “How did you manage to make sure they were his?”
“I asked for his set of razors, sir, and took them from the blades. He’d left prints here and there of his finger and thumb either on the blade or on the handle. Of course I couldn’t get anything else very sharp; but these are quite enough for the purpose, as you’ll see.”
He laid out three enlarged photographs on the desk before Sir Clinton; then, below each of the first two, he put down a second print.
“This first print,” he said, pointing to it, “represents the finger-prints we found on the automatic pistol. You can see that it’s the arch pattern on the thumb. Now here”—he indicated the companion print—“is Foss’s thumb-print; and if you look at it, you’ll see almost at a glance that it’s identical with the print on the pistol. They’re identical. I’ve measured them. And there are no other prints except Foss’s on the pistol.”
“Good,” said Sir Clinton. “‘And that, said John, is that.’ We know where we are so far as the pistol’s concerned. Pass along, please.”
“I’ve examined the pistol,” the Inspector continued. “It’s fully loaded in the magazine and has an extra cartridge in the barrel; but it hasn’t been fired recently so far as I can see.”
“Now for the next pair of prints,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“This represents the thumb-print from the sword, or whatever you call it,” said the Inspector. “Also prints of the two middle fingers of the right hand, found on the weapon. The second print of the pair shows identical finger-prints from a different source. The thumb-prints in the two cases are not exactly alike, because you get only the edge of the thumb marked in the grip on a sword, whereas the other specimen gives a full imprint. But I think you’ll find they’re the same. I’ve measured them, too. You can see that the thumb pattern is a loop type, quite different from Foss’s prints; and there’s a trace of a tiny scar at the edge of the thumb in both these prints. I’d like you to compare them carefully, sir.”
Sir Clinton took up the two prints and scanned them with care, comparing the images point by point.
“There’s no mistake possible,” he said. “The two sets are identical, so far as I can see; and the scar on the thumb is a clinching bit of evidence.”
“You admit they’re from the same hand?” asked the Inspector, with a peculiar look at Sir Clinton.
“Undoubtedly. Now whose are the second set?”
The Inspector continued to look at his superior with something out of the common in his expression.
“The second set of prints came from Maurice Chacewater’s razors,” he said.
The Chief Constable’s lips set tightly and a touch of grimness showed in his face.
