"I still see no certain crime here," Wilmot spoke with a touch of reluctance that marked something approaching conversion in his attitude, "not yet. Though I confess, I'm a bit shaken—just a bit, by that legacy.
"Should it be a crime here, then I feel sure it will still turn out to be a Tangye-Saunders affair. You say Tangye wasn't Hart. Granted. But I say that the murderer—if he exists—doesn't need to be Hart either. What about Tangye in a disguise? What about Philpotts even? What about that cousin whose death we assume, but can't prove, therefore, can't be certain of? What about Miss Saunders slipping in through those open windows? What about Miss Eden even...When you've had Vardon quite definitely not identified as Hart, perhaps you'll come over to my way of thinking."
"Perhaps we shall," Pointer said thoughtfully, as he went to an inner office. "But Tangye will still be available, if wanted. And so will the rest of your rather sweeping list." Wilmot elaborated to his theory of some more subtle combinations of the Riverview persons.
Pelham listened, but only half in agreement.
"You may be right, that's what I've maintained myself up till now. But you know—well, Pointer is Pointer!" Mayor Pelham finished with a smile.
"Yes, but he's not God-Almighty! I don't deny that this story needs very careful weighing," Wilmot went on, "I don't pretend that it doesn't alter some things. But, don't forget that it opens the door to blackmail. Suppose some one else had stumbled on it, too?"
"Vardon?" Haviland asked again, almost in spite of himself.
Pointer entered: "I wired to the man who's shadowing Vardon to keep watch night and day, and above all make a note of every one who speaks to his charge."
"He'll find it difficult to give us the slip with Inspector Watts on his heels," Haviland muttered in gratified tones.
"You think Vardon is in danger?" put in the quicker-witted newspaper man.
"If he's not Hart, we do," Pelham answered very seriously, "in that case, if Hart can do away with Vardon in some manner that prevents definite identification of the body—why, he'll think that he's hung up the case indefinitely."
"Then he doesn't know Pointer," Wilmot turned to the Chief Inspector in mock despair. "What's a body more or less to you? You'd merely think out some fresh tale of mystery, and sail on, with or without the corpse.
"No, no!" Wilmot made a gesture with his cigarette suggestive of dispersing smoke, or a crowd of tiny gnats, from in front of his eyes, "you postulate a murderer who not only left no trace of his presence at the scene of his supposed crime, but has given us no sign of life throughout the investigation. No effort has been made to mislead us. There has been no stir in the underwood of the case to mark the passage of a secret criminal, and we've all been listening attentively. I can't think Vardon, or any other man, would have such iron nerve."
"The thing I'm afraid of," Pointer spoke very gravely, a little uneasily, "is that there may be still another murder. However, the only witness I found in Wales, who could identify Hart—possibly—is spending a couple of days in a nursing-home."
"Eh?" asked Pelham.
"I really hadn't the face to ask for any more men, sir. So I suggested a quiet retreat to him. It's only a matter of two or three days, and free of charge. I told him that he might get sandbagged outside. That idea made him skip under shelter like a lamb. The doctor's in the secret, but all the rest, even the Matron, think it's suicidal mania. He's never left alone, allowed no visitors, watched day and night, and the staff are laying themselves out to amuse him. His only complaint will be that the food is all cut up, and that he won't be allowed to shave himself, but that's not much. Once Vardon's ship is back from Sweden, it's due to-morrow, he'll be escorted up to town and taken over by us like royalty. I think we've done our best to safeguard him, as we have Vardon..."
"I hope we shan't slip up on the question of identification," Pelham said, "it's absolutely vital here. If only we had been able to lay our hands on a photograph of this Hart!"
"As far as I could find out, he never had one taken," Pointer was not pleased with that fact.
"I can't see how you can doubt that Vardon's the murderer," Haviland said firmly, "it all seems of a piece. In fact, it's like one of these prehistoric monsters you hear of, where first you find a footprint—heard a pair of them in this case—and then you get a bit of a bone. Then comes along the spine, and finally you wind up with the skull, and there you are."
"Ah," Pointer said good-humouredly, "the great thing is not to link up one beast's snout with another creature's tail. It doesn't matter in a museum case, but it might in one of ours."
And with that small joke the men separated. Wilmot and Haviland going on with Pointer to see Tangye.
Pointer had sent the stockbroker a telegram before starting up to town.
It was a very jaded looking man who glanced up at the two tall figures, one in uniform, one in tweeds, as followed by Wilmot they were shown into his den by a servant who they knew, and Tangye knew, was a butler detective.
"Well?" Tangye said tersely, rather white about his tightening lips.
"Now, sir," Pointer took a chair unasked. "We haven't the man who murdered Mrs. Tangye but information has come to hand which tends to let you out. As you've seemed to feel yourself an object of suspicion—"
"Seemed to feel!" Tangye flashed back, unlocking a tantalus and pouring out some whisky for himself which he merely waved beneath the siphon as a matter of form. He did not ask any of the three to drink with him. He had not forgotten the day when Pointer had refused. Nor a later day when even Wilmot had made some excuse. "We've thought it the right thing to come and tell you that much. Naturally we'd like you to keep it to yourself for the present."
Pointer laid little stress on this last point. He thought it most unlikely that his researches into Hart's past were not known to the murderer.
"But I think you ought to be frank with us. Tell us the truth of the tangle that you've got yourself into."
"Indeed?" Tangye wheeled around. "You expect a full confession of the crime perhaps?"
"No," Pointer said equably, "we merely would like your own account of why you gave Miss Saunders that promise to marry her. Why you went to Vardon's rooms on the Tuesday your wife was found dead. Why you returned to Riverview about five on the same Tuesday afternoon. Of course, we have a tolerably complete idea of what happened, but if you could explain the various points satisfactorily, we would not expect to mention them at the trial. Nor to question Messrs. Merchant of Nottingham about the notes they received Wednesday morning. Notes known to have been in your late wife's possession yet posted by you before the police left the house Tuesday afternoon."
Tangye's teeth met with a click. He was very pale. He eyed the Chief Inspector as though sizing him up. Wilmot bent forward.
"I should like to relieve you of my presence," he said earnestly, "but as I understand that the police maintain the idea of murder, my Company would expect me to be present."
"One more or less—" Tangye said, not over civilly. "Do I understand that, unless wanted, my statement will be kept private?"
Pointer explained that that was what he hoped, though he could not give an absolute promise.
Tangye had another drink.
"You seem to know an amazing lot already," he said grudgingly.
"Oh, like most people, we know a good deal more than we say," Pointer agreed pleasantly.
Tangye looked him over with a most unloving eye.
"Well, here goes! Mrs. Tangye and I had a quarrel on Monday afternoon. It was started by her. It entirely concerned her having caught sight of another lady and me at Tunbridge orchid-show. I told you that much. Only the lady was not Miss Saunders. Her name doesn't matter—"
"One moment. You mean Miss Eden?" Pointer nodded his head as though this much he knew already.
Tangye's