“Now I’ve a piece of work for you to do; and I want you to do it convincingly. First thing to-morrow morning you’re to find some way of spreading the news that you’ve recovered all the genuine medallions and that they’re in the safe. Don’t give any details; but see that the yarn gets well abroad.”
“But all the real medallions are gone!” said Cecil in disgust. “And whoever’s got them must know they’re gone.”
“There’s nothing like a good authoritative lie for shaking confidence,” Sir Clinton observed, mildly. “That’s your share in the business. You’d better mention it at breakfast time to as many people as you can; and you can telephone the glad news to me, with the door of the telephone box open so that anyone can hear it. Yell as loud as you please, or louder if possible. It won’t hurt me at the other end. In any case, see that the happy tidings wash the most distant shores.”
“Well, since you say so, I’ll do it. But it’s sure to be found out, you know, sooner or later.”
“All I want is a single day’s run of it. My impression is that, if things go well, I’ll have the whole Ravensthorpe affair cleared up by this time to-morrow. But I don’t promise that as a certainty.”
“And this yarn is part of your scheme?”
“I’m setting a trap,” Sir Clinton assured them. “And that lie is the bait I’m offering.”
As they reached the car, he added:
“See that your constable doesn’t say a word about this affair to-night—to anyone. That’s important, Inspector.”
“I’VE made all the necessary arrangements, sir,” Inspector Armadale reported to the Chief Constable on the following evening. “A dozen constables—two with rubber-soled shoes—and a couple of sergeants. They’re to be at the Ravensthorpe gate immediately it’s dark enough. The sergeants have the instructions; the constables don’t even know where they’re going when they leave here.”
“That’s correct,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “Let’s see. That’s fourteen altogether. Less two, twelve. Plus you and myself, fourteen. I think we’ll add to our number. Nothing like being on the safe side. Mr Chacewater’s personally interested in the affair; I think we’ll take him in also. And Mr Clifton might reasonably claim some share in the business. That makes sixteen. You’re detaching two constables to watch that lakelet. Well, surely fourteen of us ought to be able to pick up the scoundrel without difficulty.”
“You’re sure that he’ll make for the terrace over the pool, sir?”
“Nothing’s sure in this world, Inspector. But I think there’s a fair chance that he’ll make in that direction. And if he doesn’t, why, then, we can run him down wherever he goes.”
“If he goes up there, we’ll have him,” the Inspector affirmed. “There’ll be no amateur bungling this time, like the last affair. I’ll see to that myself. He won’t slip through a constabulary cordon as he did when he’d only a lot of excited youngsters to deal with.”
“I leave that part of the business entirely in your hands, Inspector,” the Chief Constable assured him.
“What I can’t see,” the Inspector continued, with a faint querulousness in his tone, “is why you’re going about the thing in this elaborate way. Why not arrest him straight off and be done with it?”
“Because there’s one little party that you’ve omitted to take into your calculations, Inspector—and that’s the jury. Suspicion’s not good enough for us at this stage. Criminal trials aren’t conducted on romantic lines. Everything’s got to be proved up to the hilt. Frankly, in this case, you’ve been scattering your suspicions over a fairly wide field, haven’t you?”
“It’s our business to be suspicious of everybody,” the Inspector pleaded in extenuation.
“Oh, within limits, within limits, Inspector. You started by suspecting Foxton Polegate; then you branched off to Marden; after that you hovered a bit round Maurice Chacewater; and at the end you were hot on Cecil Chacewater’s heels. There’s too much of the smart reader of detective stories about that. He suspects about six of the characters without having any real proof at all; and then when the criminal turns up clearly in the last chapter he says: ‘Well, that fellow was on my list of suspects.’ That style of thing’s no use in real criminal work, where you’ve got to produce evidence and not merely some vague suspicions.”
“You’re a bit hard, sir,” the Inspector protested.
“Well, you criticized my methods, remember. If I were to arrest the fellow just now, I doubt if I could convince a jury of his guilt. And they’d be quite right. It’s their business to be sceptical and insist on definite proof. It’s that proof that I expect to get out of to-night’s work.”
“It will be very instructive for me, sir,” Inspector Armadale commented, with heavy irony.
