"Very possibly. But your clever criminal always stages the effect of either accident or suicide. Preferably the former. Don't forget that either. You know as well as we do that not every case is docketed at the Yard under the label which the coroner's verdict hangs on it."
Wilmot did know.
"And that's a fact," murmured Haviland fervently. "Speaking of doors, Mr. Wilmot, that door found leading out of Tangye's smoking-room...Well, what leads out of a thing, leads into it too!"
"And that's a fact," Wilmot quoted gravely.
"Of course it may mean nothing. In fact, I still don't see how there's a crime here, for Mrs. Tangye would have rung that bell quick as light if any unauthorised person had come into the morning-room."
Wilmot sighed.
"Entrances—exits—butter on fingers—Fido's job!" he murmured disconsolately. "But supposing this were a crime—which I'm perfectly satisfied it's not—on the evidence so far, that is to say—"
"Perfectly satisfied? Is that the Insurance Company speaking?" Pointer imitated a telephone call.
Wilmot grinned.
"Fairly satisfied then. A nice look-out for us it would be! Not the ghost of a hope of catching the criminal."
"I wouldn't bank on that," Pointer said tranquilly.
"Do you really mean that you believe we could catch a criminal with nothing more to start on than the little we've got hold of so far?" Wilmot's tone showed his incredulity. Yet he was a firm believer in New Scotland Yard. In the will to win of the quiet men trained there. And among these men Pointer had risen high and swiftly. Wilmot wondered if more had reached the ears of the C.I.D. than of the police.
"Routine does a lot," Pointer murmured placidly.
Wilmot laughed outright.
"I feel like Watson's youngest bady in the arms of the mighty Sherlock. Do you mean to tell me, seriously, that without the person who killed Mrs. Tangye—you quite understand that my acceptance of his, or her, existence is purely academic, and solely for the purposes of discussion—without his making one false step, you could hope to bring home this crime? I'd be willing to bet a thousand pounds it couldn't be done."
"You'd lose, Mr. Wilmot," Haviland said loyally. But he, too, had his doubts. He knew Pointer's record. But every man makes mistakes sometimes. The Chief Inspector was a favourite with those who worked under him. He was probity itself, unassuming, open-minded, quick, accurate, and absolutely untirable once he had set out on a trail. But he was no wizard. Haviland wondered uneasily if this case might not be going to be one of the Yard's few blunders. Somehow, Haviland could not say how, he felt that Wilmot might have less science, less determination, but more luck. It was not the way by which Wilmot considered that his past triumphs had been won. But allowance must be made for esprit de corps.
"If I'm right, then it's the one false step he's already taken which ought to do the trick," Pointer said grimly. "He's killed. And unless it's an entirely motiveless crime, a homicidal impulse—killed for a reason. In the case of a lunatic, I grant you, the best detective outside of a book, might not be able to do his duty. But if a motive once existed, it can be found again. It exists as much as a lump of concrete exists. It's better evidence. For it's indestructible.
"Of course," Wilmot mused. "I agree that once a man commits a crime, he sets machinery in motion which he can't stop without showing himself in the effort. For he's part of it. But what if he's too clever to make any move?"
He shook his head at the prospect of the law in such a case. So did Haviland.
Pointer's face hardened. "Murderers always think that if they can plan their crimes cleverly enough, they can get away with it. My whole life is based on the conviction that you can't have a premeditated crime with a motive so clever that it can't be found out, and traced home. Unless there's a slip in the handling of the investigations. The murderer gambles on that slip, that's all."
"I wonder!" Wilmot weighed the thought in his mental balance, then shook his head.
"Speaking of facts," Haviland suggested, "if we could find a few more. That cleaned-off safe door was odd. That smoking-room exit very handy. Still, they don't prove anything. Mr. Tangye's alibi seems very sound."
Pointer shook out the dottle from his pipe.
"Time's up. We had better return to the house. After that, I, or rather you, Wilmot, have an appointment with Stewart, he's the Tangyes' family solicitor as well as the Coroner, you know. And then you got Miss Eden to give you an appointment over the telephone for later in the afternoon."
"Miss Eden?"
"The friend with whom Mrs. Tangye spent the greater part of Sunday at Tunbridge Wells. She's up for the inquest and the funeral. I doubt though, if it will be easy to learn anything fresh from her—judging by her deposition."
"Sorry," Wilmot said apologetically, "but you'll have to deputise for me. I seem to've made double engagements for this afternoon. So, unless you would like to write my next article, and send in half a column of your opinion on the new Opera—"
Pointer declined with a laugh.
CHAPTER 4
POINTER stepped in for a moment with Haviland at the police station. He wanted the photographs of the revolver. They were ready for him. An Inspector hurried in. "Mr. Tangye's been telephoning, sir. He says he's gone over his wife's papers, and finds there's a large sum of money missing from the house. Fifteen hundred pounds. Says it must have been at Riverview yesterday."
"This does alter things for a fact!" Haviland jumped up with the eyes of a good watch dog who hears some one on the step. Was it possible that facts, real facts, facts which you could marshal and exhibit, were going to bear out the Chief Inspector's fantastic idea?
They telephoned the news on to Wilmot, and walked quickly up to Riverview. Tangye was waiting for them. He looked both angry and uneasy. Taking them into his study he closed the door, and rapidly amplified his message.
It seemed that Mrs. Tangye had employed a separate firm of solicitors for the management of her property. Sladen and Sladen of Baker Street. Tangye said that he himself knew nothing of her estate. Had always refused to know. But on going over the papers which the firm had sent him, he had found that half of a sum paid her during the past fortnight was missing.
"Like her keys," Pointer reflected aloud, and Tangye turned a swift, wary, glance on him. But he answered impatiently:
"The keys are of no importance. A sum of money is a different thing. It seems she sold a farm over a week ago for three thousand pounds. The money was paid in at her solicitor's office, and remained there till yesterday. But just after two, Mrs. Tangye drove up in a taxi, without an appointment, and took the whole amount away with her. She was paid in bank-notes. Half of those notes are missing."
"Bank-notes? Why not a cheque, sir?"
Tangye explained that his wife had had an invincible dislike to cheques. A bank had once failed, leaving her with an uncashed, worthless cheque. Since then, all her transactions had been strictly in notes.
"Well, of course," Haviland repeated, taking down the numbers of the notes, "this does alter things, for a fact."
"Not in the essentials. Mrs. Tangye's death was an accident. Couldn't of course have been anything else," Tangye said shortly, "but that missing sum may