In a word, since murder will out, Siddle had forgotten his keys! Probably, he had gone to the safe for money, and, while writing the notice as to his absence, had laid down the keys and omitted to pick them up again.
Furneaux disregarded ledgers and account books. He examined a bank pass-book and a check-book. In a drawer which contained these and a quantity of gold he found a small, leather-bound book with a lock, which no key on the bunch was tiny enough to fit. A bit of twisted wire soon overcame this difficulty, and Furneaux began to read.
There were quaint diagrams, and surveyor's sketches, both in plan and section, with curious notes, and occasional records of what appeared to be passages from letters or conversations. The detective read, and read, referring back and forth, absorbed in his task, no doubt, but evidently puzzled.
At last, he stuffed the book into a pocket, completed his scrutiny of the safe, examined the bottles on the shelf labeled "poisons," and took a sample of the colorless contents of one bottle marked "C10H14N2."
Then he went to the kitchen, replaced all catches and the lock of the door, and let himself out by the way he had come.
Winter saw him from afar, and hastened upstairs to the private sitting-room. Furneaux appeared there soon.
"Well?" said the Chief Inspector eagerly.
"Got him, I think," said Furneaux.
Not much might be gathered from that monosyllabic question and its answer, but its significance in Siddle's ears, could he have heard, would have been that of the passing bell tolling for the dead.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Truth at Last
Not often did Furneaux qualify an opinion by that dubious phrase, "I think," which, in its colloquial sense, implies that the thought contains a reservation as to possible error.
Winter looked anxious. Both he and his colleague knew well when to drop the good-natured banter they delighted in. They were face to face now with issues of life and death, dark and sinister conditions which had already destroyed one life, threatened another, and might envisage further horrors. Small wonder, then, if the Chief Inspector's usually cheerful face was clouded, or that his hopes should be somewhat dashed when Furneaux seemed to lack the abounding confidence which was his most marked characteristic.
"You've got something, I see," he said, trying to speak encouragingly, and glancing at the bundle of clothing which Furneaux had wrapped in a newspaper before dropping from the bedroom window of Siddle's house.
"Yes, a lot. What to make of it is the puzzle. We either go ahead on the flimsiest of evidence or I carry out another housebreaking job this afternoon and restore things in status quo. First, the bundle—an old covert-coating overcoat and a pair of frayed trousers which probably draped Owd Ben's ghost. They've been soaked in turpentine, which, chemist or no chemist, is still the best agent for removing stains. We'll put 'em under the glass after we've examined the book. Siddle keeps a sort of diary, a series of jumbled memoranda. If we can extract nutriment out of that we may have something tangible to go upon. Let's begin at the end."
Opening the leather-bound note-book, Furneaux stood with his back to the window. Winter, owing to his superior height, could look over the lesser man's shoulder. Many an occult document affecting the famous crimes and social or dynastic intrigues of the previous decade had these two examined in that way, the main advantage of scrutiny in common being that they could compare readings or suggested readings without loss of time, and with the original manuscript before both pairs of eyes.
In the first instance, there were no dates—only scraps of sentences, or comments. The concluding entry in the book was:
"A tactical error? Perhaps. Immovable."
Then, taking the order backward:
"Scout the very notion of such an infamy. You and every scandal-monger in S. may do your worst."
"Free to confess that events have opened my eyes to the truth, so, not for the first time, out of evil comes good."
"A prig."
"Visit for such a purpose a piece of unheard-of impudence."
These were all on one page.
"Quite clearly a précis of Grant's remarks when Siddle called on Monday," said Winter.
At any other time, Furneaux would have waxed sarcastic. Now he merely nodded.
"Stops in a queer way," he muttered. "Not a word about the inquest or the missing bottles."
The preceding page held even more disjointed entries, which, nevertheless, provided a fair synopsis of Doris's spirited words on the Sunday afternoon.
"Malice and ignorance."
"Patient because of years."
"Loyal comrade. Shall remain."
"Code."
"No difference in friendship."
"E. hopeless. Contempt."
"Skipping—good."
On the next page:
"Isidor G. Ingerman. Useful. Inquire."
"E.'s boasts? Nonsensical, surely!"
"Why has D. gone?"
Both men paused at that line.
"Detective?" suggested Winter.
"That's how I take it," agreed Furneaux.
Then came a sign: "+10%."
"Elkin's mixture was not 'as before.' It was fortified," grinned Furneaux. "That's the exact increase of nicotine. By the way, I have a sample. We can take care of him on that charge, without a shadow of doubt."
Winter blew softly on the back of his friend's head.
"You're thorough, Charles, thorough!" he murmured. "It's a treat to work with you when you get really busy."
Furneaux ran his thumb across the end of several leaves.
"I can tell you now," he said, "that there's nothing of real value in the earlier notes. So far as I can judge, they refer either to a sort of settlement with his wife or chance phrases used by Doris Martin which might imply that she was heart whole and fancy free. There's not a bally word dealing with the murder, or that can be twisted into the vaguest allusion to it. But here's a plan and section which have a sort of significance. I've seen the place, so recognized it, or thought I did. We must check it, of course. Here you are! You know the footbridge across the river from Bush Walk?"
"Yes."
"The eastern end is supported on a hollow pier of masonry, in which one might tog up unseen. These drawings would be useful as an Aide Memoire on a dark night. A false step, with the river in flood, might be awkward."
"What's that on the opposite page?"
"I give it up—at present."
This somewhat rare display of modesty on Furneaux's part was readily understandable. A series of straight lines and angles conveyed very little hint of their purport; but Winter smiled behind his friend's back.
"I've been prowling about this wretched inn longer than you," he said. "Look outside, to the left."
"Don't need to, now," cackled Furneaux. "It's the profile of a wall, gate, and outhouse along which one could reach the window of the club-room. Would you mind stopping grinning like a Cheshire cat?"
"Anything else?"
"Yes. This one:
'S. M.? 1820.'