“Marden had his handkerchief out at once. Probably he had it ready in his hand. He picked up the Muramasa sword, leaving no finger-marks of his own on it through the handkerchief. And . . . that was the end of Foss.”
Sir Clinton leaned over, selected a fresh cigarette with a certain fastidiousness, and lighted it before going on with his tale.
“That was the end of his feeble little attempt to get the better of his confederates. The money in his pocket-book didn’t give him the escape he’d hoped for. All his precautions to leave no clues to his real identity played straight into the hands of Marden and Brackley.
“Marden’s immediate problem, once he’d come out of his fury, was difficult enough. I suspect that his first move was to search Foss and get the medallions out of his pockets. Then he was faced with the blood on his hands and on his handkerchief. He had his plan made almost in a moment. He went across, deliberately slipped—he was an artist in detail, evidently—smashed against the glass of one of the cases, cut his hand, and then he felt fairly secure. He wrapped up the wounds in his handkerchief—and there was the case complete to account for any stray blood anywhere on his clothes. He tried the safe, for fear Maurice was lurking inside; and then he gave the alarm.”
Sir Clinton glanced inquiringly at the Inspector, but Armadale shook his head.
“Brackley had nothing to say about all that, sir. Marden gave him no details.”
“It’s mostly guess-work,” Sir Clinton warned his audience. “All that one can say for it is that it fits the facts fairly well.”
“And is that brute in the house now?” Una Rainhill demanded. “I shan’t go to sleep if he is.”
“Two constables were detached to arrest him,” Sir Clinton assured her. “He’s not on the premises, you may count on that.”
Inspector Armadale’s face took on a wooden expression, the result of suppressing a sardonic smile.
“Well, he does manage to tell the truth and convey a wrong impression with it,” he commented inwardly.
“Now consider the state of affairs after the Foss murder,” Sir Clinton went on. “Marden and Brackley were in a pretty pickle, it seems to me. They had three medallions which Marden had got when he rifled Foss’s body. But they didn’t know what they’d got. They weren’t in the secret of the dots on the replicas. For all they knew—knew for certain, I mean—Foss might have bungled the affair and the things they had might be merely replicas. If so, they were no good. I can’t tell the difference between a medallion and an electrotype myself; but I believe an expert can tell you whether a thing’s been struck with a die or merely plated from a mould. These two scoundrels, I take it, weren’t experts. They couldn’t tell which brand of article they had in their hands.
“There was only one thing to be done. They’d have to get the whole six things into their hands, and then they’d be sure of having the three medallions. So they fell back on their original scheme of plain burglary. That, I’m sure, had been their first plan. They’d sent their American confederate to see the safe a long while ago; and no doubt he’d reported that it was an old pattern. Hence the otophone, by means of which they could pick the combination lock. The otophone was still on the premises: I’d left it for them. But they were up against one thing.
“I’d put a guard night and day on the museum. That blocked any attempt at burglary unless they were prepared to take the tremendous risk of manhandling the guard. If the door had merely been locked, I don’t think it would have given them much trouble. I’m pretty sure there’s a very good outfit of burglar’s tools mixed up with the tool-kit of the car, where it would attract no attention. But the guard was a difficulty in the way.”
Without making it obvious to the others, Sir Clinton made it clear to Armadale that the next part of his story was meant specially for the Inspector.
“I’ve given you the view I held of the case at that point. I felt fairly certain I was right. But if I’d been asked to put that case before a jury, I certainly would have backed out. It was mostly surmise: accurate enough, perhaps, but with far too little support. A jury—quite rightly—wants facts and not theories. Could one even convince them that the vanishing trick had been carried through as I believed it had? It would have been a bit of a gamble. And I don’t believe in that sort of gamble. I wanted the thing proved up to the hilt. And the best way to do that was to catch them actually at work.
