“He said so, sir. Foss knew nothing about it, of course. It was a surprise for him. They knew he’d have to pretend he knew all about it when Marden brought it to him.”
“That finishes the parcel,” Sir Clinton continued. “But it had suggested one or two things, as you see. The most important thing, from my point of view, was that this gang was not exactly a band of brothers. Two of them suspected the third. Possibly the split was even more extensive.
“The next thing was the valet’s story. According to him, Maurice stabbed Foss, after a quarrel which Marden couldn’t overhear clearly. Unfortunately for that tale, the blow that killed Foss was a powerful one. What Marden didn’t know was that Maurice had sprained his wrist that morning. I doubt if a sprained wrist could have achieved that stab. There was no proof, of course; but it seemed just a little doubtful. Then Marden said that from the door he couldn’t catch the words of the quarrel, although the voices were angry in tone. I tried the experiment myself later; and it’s perfectly easy to overhear what’s said in the museum from the position Marden said he was in. So that was a deliberate lie. On that basis, one could eliminate most of Marden’s tale as being under suspicion.
“What really happened in the museum? Maurice is gone, Foss is dead, Marden won’t tell. One has just to reconstruct the thing as plausibly as one can. My impression—it’s only conjecture—is this. Marden was listening at the door and he could see some parts of the room, since the door was ajar. Foss had succeeded in substituting one replica for a real medallion. To get Maurice’s eye off him, he asked to see the Muramasa sword. Maurice went to get it, leaving Foss at his rubbing—visible to Maurice all the time. Foss made the exchange of the second replica at that moment. Maurice came back with the Muramasa sword—and of course in doing that, he put his fingerprints on the handle in drawing the blade from the sheath. Marden, at the door, saw him do this and made a note of it. Just as Maurice came back to Foss, he was suddenly taken ill. He had the third real medallion in one hand; and as he passed Foss he picked up the two replicas—which he believed to be the other two real medallions. He went to the safe and hurriedly put on a shelf the two replicas; but the other medallion, in his other hand, he forgot all about. He shut the safe and staggered into the secret passage.”
Inspector Armadale looked frankly incredulous.
“Do people take ill all of a sudden like that?” he demanded. “Why should he want to rush off all at once?”
Sir Clinton swung round on him.
“Ever suffered from rheumatism, Inspector? Or neuralgia? Or toothache?”
“No,” the Inspector replied with all the pride of perfect health. “I’ve never had rheumatism and I’ve never had a tooth go wrong in my life.”
“No wonder you can’t understand, then,” Sir Clinton retorted. “Wait till you have neuralgia in the fifth nerve, Inspector. Then, if you don’t know yourself that you’re unfit for human society, your friends will tell you, soon enough. If you get a bad attack, it’s maddening—nothing less. Men have suicided on account of it often enough,” he added, with a meaning glance at Armadale.
A light broke in on the Inspector’s mind.
“So that was it? No wonder I couldn’t put two and two together!” he reflected to himself; but he made no audible comment.
“Now we come to a mere leap in the dark,” Sir Clinton continued. “I believe that as soon as Maurice was out of the way, Marden went into the museum and demanded the medallions from Foss.”
He put down his cigarette and leaned back in his chair. When he spoke again, a faint tinge of pity seemed to come into his voice.
“Foss was a poor little creature, hardly better than a rabbit in the big jungle of crime. And the other two were something quite different: carnivores, beasts of prey. They’d picked him out simply on account of his one miserable talent: his little trick of legerdemain. He was only a tool, poor beggar, and he knew it. I expect that when he saw what sort of company he’d fallen into, he was terrified. That would account for the pistol he carried.
“His only chance of a fair deal from them lay in the fact that he had the real medallions in his possession; and he meant to hold on to them. And when Marden demanded them, Foss revolted. It must have been like the revolt of a rabbit against a stoat. He hadn’t a chance. He pulled out his pistol, I expect; and when that appeared, Marden saw red.
“But Marden, even in a fury, was a person with a very keen mind. Perhaps he’d thought the thing over beforehand. He was evidently one of these subhuman creatures with no respect for human life—the things they label Apaches in Paris. When the pistol came out he was ready for it. Foss, I’m sure, brandished the thing in an amateurish fashion—he wasn’t a gunman of any sort. Probably he imagined that the mere sight of the thing would bring Marden to heel.
