“Poison,” answered the surgeon.
“Cyanide?”
“Almost sure. A guess?”
Bony hesitated.
“Yes,” he replied. To those assembled, he said: “Find the man who wears a size twelve in boots. He is not a workman. The heels and soles are of rubber, the diamond-shaped trademark is stamped on the soles, and the soles are partly worn, very much so along the inner edge toward the toe, indicating that the wearer is a horseman.”
“Thanks, Bony,” purred Superintendent Bolt. “Mason, examine Miss Jade and the staff and ascertain who called here last evening after eight o’clock—you know—the man with twelve in boots.”
When Mason had left the office, Bolt said to Bony: “Any other point of interest?”
“Yes. A maid was sent to enquire after Grumman when he did not appear punctually at breakfast as was his custom. She first knocked on his door, and receiving no answer, she tried the door and found it unlocked. She opened the door a little way and called Grumman’s name. Again receiving no answer, she opened the door wide and looked in. The curtains were drawn before the french windows, but there was sufficient light to enable her to see that he was not in bed and was not in the room. Subsequently, when I went in, I found that all of Mr. Grumman’s luggage had been taken away.”
“You can’t tell us how or by whom it was removed?” asked the Superintendent.
“No. I possess nothing on which to direct suspicion towards anyone. Personally, I find it most annoying,” Bony went on, blandly. “I want to go through the late Mr. Grumman’s effects.”
“You don’t want to more than we do,” snapped Snook, and Bolt began to chuckle.
Chapter Four
A Pleasant Afternoon
During the remainder of that morning, Bony occupied his cane chair at the distant end of the veranda. Plain-clothes policemen seemed to be everywhere; they walked about the lawn and up and down the paths; in and out of the room lately occupied by Grumman, the french windows of which were immediately behind the reclining Bonaparte; and about the veranda interviewing guests who already had been examined in the lounge as to their identity and occupation and holiday plans. Two of them photographed the house, the lawns, the windows of Grumman’s room, and the interior of that room and of the reception hall. The fingerprint-section did their work in Grumman’s room, while members of the traffic branch roared their cycle outfits up the drive to report to Superintendent Bolt, and roared down it to slip away again. An ambulance came to collect the bodies. Two men measured the lawns and the bottom road bank, and made a rough plan from which would be made a minutely accurate one.
Lunch was served to the guests at one o’clock. The efficient George waited with the assistance of two maids, his movements smooth and his demeanour courteous. The guests were informed by Inspector Snook that they were released from restriction, and when they drifted from the dining room they found the secretary at their service and the now-composed Miss Jade on duty as hostess.
By three o’clock all but six of the guests had departed, and all but two of the policemen had left. The room occupied by Grumman had been sealed. Three kookaburras in a driveway gum tree decided to chorus their pent-up feelings in sardonic mirth. At half-past three Bony was the only guest occupying the veranda, and to him George brought afternoon tea on a service trolley.
“It’s been quite an exciting day, George,” observed the little half-caste when helping himself to two of Mrs. Parkes’s cakes.
“Yes, sir, it has that,” George agreed. “The next stir-up will be from the press, I expect.”
“Ah, yes. Those boys will make an appearance at any moment. In fact, they are a little late, but then, I suppose the detectives wouldn’t release the news till after they returned to the city. It appears that you will be less busy from now on.”
George smiled.
“Oh, the place will soon fill up again. Lots of people will come out of curiosity. Another cup of tea, sir?”
“Thank you. How long have you been employed here?” Again George smiled.
“Three months, one week and four days,” he replied. “I had to work it all out for the d.s. Well, I must get along. Thank you, sir.”
As he trundled his trolley away Bony glanced at his feet, noted that he was wearing tennis shoes size seven, that he was slightly knock-kneed and walked on his toes.
The sun was westering, and already the house shadow reached far down beyond the highway. The valley lay bathed in colour, and the far mountains had changed their colour from dove-grey to warm brown. Not a cloud broke the blue dome of the sky, not a leaf moved, so still was the air. It was almost as warm as a summer’s evening.
George came again to Napoleon Bonaparte.
“Inspector Snook sends his compliments, sir, and will you kindly see him in the office?”
Bony frowned.
“What, again!” he exclaimed. “Hang it, I suppose we’ll all be pestered by these detectives for some time.”
“They can be very irritating, sir,” George said, sympathetically.
“They can be!” echoed Bony. “They are.”
He found the office door closed, knocked on it and entered when a loud voice bade him. He re-closed the door and crossed to sit at the table at which Inspector Snook was seated.
“Thought you’d like to hear results to date before we leave,” Snook said. “And there are one or two points that want clearing up.”
“Go ahead,” Bony urged.
“To begin with, our fellows haven’t located Marcus,” Snook said, his voice containing a trace of anger. “Within ten minutes of Bisker’s call this morning all roads leading down from this mountain were blocked, and all cars travelling from here were stopped and examined.
“Careful questioning of Bisker has given us a reasonable estimate of the time which elapsed between the minute Marcus left the house and the minute that Bisker spoke to Headquarters on the telephone as five minutes, so that the roads were blocked fifteen minutes after Marcus left in that car. The nearest road-block was at Manton, nine miles down the highway, Manton being a small township with a railway station.
“It’s possible that Marcus got beyond Manton in those fifteen minutes. And it’s possible, too, that he took a side road off the highway and two places between here and Manton. Anyway, he hasn’t been trapped.”
“Tell me about him,” Bony requested. Snook leaned back in his chair, placed the tips of his fingers together and pursed his lips before replying. Then he said:
“Marcus is our Number One Gangster. Marcus is our own pet name for Alexander Croft, alias Mick Slater, alias Edward B. Martyn.”
“Oh!” breathed Bony. “Ho! Ho! Edward B. Martyn! No wonder the constable didn’t have a chance.”
“No, Rice had no chance. Rice was a plain-clothes man for six years, and a good man, too. He was shot up pretty badly last year, and when he was able to return to duty he was offered the station up here for a period for health reasons. He knew Marcus—unfortunately for him when he was unarmed.”
“I’ve heard of this Marcus under the name of Martyn,” Bony averred. “He never came into my class of investigations. Bad man, eh?”
“The baddest, Bony. He’s cold and efficient, and the list of his crimes is as long as your arm.”
“What does he specialise in?”