Pointer replied that he would be very glad of his help.
"Where is this Mr. Farrant?" he then asked.
"Playing golf, unfortunately. As he lives in the house, he might have been of the greatest use just now. While I waited for you to come, I telephoned Armstrong's offices in Queen Victoria Street, and asked them if they knew where he could be found. They don't. Incidentally, of course, I made no mention of what has happened. I left that to you. Theories and combinations are province."
Apart from the people in the house, the thing that interested both Pointer and Schofild most for the moment was the room and the chest. The latter was photographed from every angle, fingerprints were taken, collected, and numbered. Unfortunately they were few in number and very blurred, as the chest was elaborately carved.
The stretcher was now placed on the floor beside it, and Armstrong's body was lifted out, after its position against, the walls of the chest had been outlined with chalk. Schofild noticed the great care that Pointer took to ensure that this should be done with accuracy and detail. He had milk brushed over the chalk marks to keep from smudging. The cause of death was quite clear. Armstrong had been shot through the head from a little behind one ear, the bullet was still in the head. The weapon had, almost touched him, for it had singed his thick, curly hair.
"In my opinion," Schofild said to Pointer, with quite unconscious stress on the 'my' that he always gave to that phrase, "the wound in itself does not absolutely preclude the idea of suicide. But he couldn't have shot himself lying down in that wooden chest, nor could he have been accidentally, or intentionally, shot by any one else while in it. Suicide, and spite that tries to stage a crime? Quite possible in my opinion. Quite possible."
There were definitely no marks of a struggle. Each garment as it was removed was examined. Any articles that could possibly retain a fingerprint were tested. Over the letter-case Pointer for the first time paused a long moment. Then he glanced up at Schofild, who was scrutinizing it too.
"Been what the Americans call 'frisked' in my opinion," said the crime-expert promptly. "Wonder what they were searching for?" He asked the question of himself. Quite definitely of himself.
Pointer thought that the search had not been for anything definite. He based his idea on the fact that the contents of all compartments, even the one with a few of. Armstrong's cards in it, had—to his keen eyes—been taken out, flipped over, and hurriedly replaced, which would not have been necessary had a definite paper of known size been wanted. He thought that the search had been merely to make sure that nothing incriminating was in the case, or had been left in the case. There were many fingerprints on the various papers inside, but nothing else that promised any help. Pointer motioned to his men to cover up the body, and began his search of the Chinese suite itself. As has been said, the three rooms of which it consisted, opened each out of the other in a straight line. There was no way into or out of the suite except through the one main doorway, since the small lacquer double doors inset in the side of the end room were, Buck had told them, purely ornamental.
Investigation with Pointer's tiny surgeon's mirror showed the dust of many years thick in the keyhole. On the other side was the room, almost empty of furniture, which Buck had called "the sewing-room," where he and the other "coolies" had waited before their entrance, and where the small Chinese orchestra had been stationed. Here, too, as in the suite, the most careful scrutiny showed no spot of blood, no smear, or stain. Everything went to show that the body had been placed in the chest before the latter had been set in the alcove. Schofild said as much.
A question put to Callard, who was drinking cocktails below, confirmed the statement that there was no key in existence to the lacquer side doors. Lord Nunhead had brought them and the large entrance doors from a nobleman's house in China, and even at that time the smaller pair had been without a key, but as Nunhead intended to use them for the place they occupied as part of the wall decoration, this was immaterial.
"Rufus will give you all the details about them," Callard said indifferently; "he got my sister to keep the suite unaltered and go in for Chinese things. Rufus Armstrong, Boyd's cousin."
"And where is Mr. Rufus Armstrong?" Pointer asked.
"God knows. Not here. That's all I can say."
"Who is this cousin?" Pointer asked Schofild as they left the young man, "do you know anything about him?"
"Only that he's in existence," Schofild replied, "and that he's a well-known collector, especially of Eastern things. Wealthy man. I seem to remember that he has a beautiful old house off Fitzroy Square—" Schofild was groping in his recollection of chance remarks and idle gossip. A glance in the telephone directory gave his number, but apparently the household of Mr. Rufus Armstrong, as well as the master, were out, for they got no reply.
Too much, however, depended on whether the small side doors could have been opened, for there to be any mistake made, and Pointer promptly telephoned for one of the Yard's best locksmiths to come at once to Charles Street.
As for the windows in the suite, they were covered with wrought iron ornamental gratings cemented into the walls, which permitted the windows to be raised or lowered in the usual way, but absolutely precluded the idea of any entrance through them.
By this time the police surgeon had arrived. All he could say was that, to the best of his belief, death had occurred over six hours ago—though he could not be positive. But of two things he was sure. The first was that the body had been placed in the wedding-chest very shortly indeed after death had taken place—within half an hour. And he gave as another thirty minutes the probable time between the shot and the moment that Armstrong had actually died.
CHAPTER TWO
ARMSTRONG'S valet had meanwhile been asked to go through the dead man's clothing. He could only be sure that one thing was missing, beyond the hat and gloves, and that was Armstrong's gold fountain pen, a Swan, with his initials on it. Mr. Armstrong always carried it on him by day.
Pointer now asked the man for further details of when he had last seen his master.
"This morning, sir. Around nine, or a few minutes before." He went on to say that Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong were dining out with Major Hardy, and that his master had stopped him on the stairs to tell him that he might be very late, but would do his best to get home by eight, but could not possibly be in before that hour at the earliest.
The other question was a general one. Had he any idea, however fantastic, that might throw light on his master's end.
The man said that he had none whatever, except that, as every one knew, tremendous financial issues hung on Mr. Armstrong's various Australian enterprises.
As to any domestic trouble, or any personal reason for Armstrong having taken his life, his manservant scoffed at the idea. He considered Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong to have been an unusually devoted couple.
Pointer touched the doctor on the arm. The body was being carried down to the ambulance waiting below.
"I think Mrs. Armstrong needs you. I'll go up with you and wait outside the door. If it's in any way possible—without danger to her, I must see her. I don't want to speak to her, if she's at all overcome, but I do want to see her."
Dr. Birckbeck nodded. He was a man of few words. They hurried up the stairs. The doctor was a bare minute in the bedroom when he came out.
"She can't possibly be questioned. She needs a hypodermic at once."
"I'll be your assistant," Pointer said promptly. "I've often seen them given."
Again Birekbeck nodded, and they entered together.
The room was very modern. The walls seemed entirely made of mirrors except for inset cupboards of aluminum. The ceiling was of the same metal. The chairs were mere puffs of satin held together by