He was not quite right, for Inspector Cook, pondering still over the case, had remembered that Chester had not been in his house at the time of the murder, and had thought fit to mention this circumstance, though reluctantly, to Hemingway. His own chief, Superintendent Small, snubbed him immediately. ‘The doctor was called out on a case, as might happen to any doctor,’ he said. ‘What reason would he have to kill Carter, that’s what I should like to know?’
‘Only that he’s very friendly with Mrs Carter – to put it no higher,’ replied Cook. ‘Mind you, sir, I’m not saying there’s anything in it, for I’m sure I haven’t anything against Dr Chester, and I know he’s highly respected. But it just flashed across my mind, in a manner of speaking.’
‘You’d better forget it,’ said Small. ‘Pack of rubbish!’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cook, rather woodenly.
‘That’s all right,’ interposed Hemingway. ‘I’m always grateful for a bit of help. I wouldn’t like you to think I haven’t taken the doctor into account, because I have. But so far I haven’t had so much as a smell of a motive. That isn’t to say I won’t have, of course.’
‘Are you looking for one?’ asked Small, staring at him.
‘High and low,’ responded the Inspector promptly. To his Sergeant, a moment or two later, when they were alone, he added: ‘And that’s truer than what old fat-face thinks. At least, when I say I’m hunting high and low, what I mean is that some other mug’s going round Chipston making a fool of himself. I’m what you might call the brains behind the organisation.’
‘Do you mean you’re expecting to find that Chester’s the heir to the old mad woman’s money?’ demanded Wake, startled out of his customary stolidity.
‘The secret of being a highly efficient officer,’ said Hemingway, fixing him with a quelling look, ‘is on the one hand never to expect anything, and on the other never to be surprised at anything either. You remember that, my lad, and you may do as well as I have. I don’t say you will, because your psychology’s bad and you haven’t got vision, but you may. What’s the time?’
‘Going on for four o’clock,’ replied Wake, swallowing these strictures with a visible effort.
The Inspector frowned, and lit a cigarette from the stub of his old one. ‘If Aunt Clara isn’t something Carter saw in an opium-dream, I ought to be hearing from the Chief pretty soon.’
The call from London came through five minutes later, and the Sergeant, informed that Superintendent Hannasyde wanted to speak to Inspector Hemingway, handed over the receiver to his superior, and tried to look as though he were not listening. He soon abandoned this detached attitude, for the half of the conversation which he could hardly have helped hearing was too maddeningly tantalising to be ignored.
‘That you, sir?’ said Hemingway. ‘I’ve been getting what you might call a bit jumpy. Did they find anything?… They did?… You don’t say!… On no, I’m not surprised: I thought they would… They got what?… Oh, trustee! Yes, I get it. Was he able to tell us who the present heir is?… Nice work, sir! Let me have it!’
The Sergeant, stealing a glance at him, saw his face stiffen. He had been lying back at his ease in his chair, but he sat bolt upright all at once. ‘Say that again, Chief !’ he requested. ‘What name did you say?… You don’t mean it? Well, I’ll be— Good God!… Convey anything to me! Yes, it does!… What’s that?… He doesn’t know what?… The address! Oh, he doesn’t, doesn’t he? Well, that’s where I’m one up on him, because I do!… Yes, right here, under my nose!… No, it’s got me gasping around like a landed fish…Not a breath!… Not so much as a whiff of suspicion! Right out of the picture!… Here, tell me this, sir! What’s the sum total of this precious fortune… What, pounds? I’d do a murder myself for that… Finished? No, nor anything like it, but I will be, don’t you fret, sir!’
He laid the instrument gently down on its rest, and drew a long breath. Across the table, his eyes met the Sergeant’s avid gaze. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it!’ he said, and shook his head. ‘But a hundred thousand pounds! Is that a motive, or is it a motive? Do you know who’s the heir, to that little nest-egg, Wake?’
‘No!’ almost shouted the Sergeant. ‘I do not, sir, but I’d like to!’
‘White,’ said Hemingway. ‘Mr Harold White, my lad.’
There was a moment’s astonished silence. The Sergeant broke it. ‘But he couldn’t have killed Carter, sir!’
‘If he didn’t, I’ll resign from the Force,’ said Hemingway.
‘But, Inspector, you saw the spot where he was standing when Carter was shot! It wasn’t within sight of the bridge! It wasn’t anywhere near where the gun was found!’
‘He wasn’t within forty yards of where the rifle was found,’ agreed Hemingway. ‘More like fifty, from what I remember. This bird is a pleasure to deal with!’
‘Look here, sir!’ besought the Sergeant. ‘Setting that aside, isn’t it a fact he was hoping to get money out of Carter for his little land-racket? Why, he’d even started negotiations to buy the land, let alone bringing Jones up to the house to talk business with Carter!’
The Inspector stabbed a forefinger at him. ‘Bringing him up to the house to make a disinterested witness! All that shady stuff about the building estate was dust, my lad, dust to be thrown in our eyes!’
‘But I don’t see that you can say that, sir, honest I don’t! I mean, the thing couldn’t be done! Unless – why, do you suppose the son was in it, too?’
‘That long-haired nincompoop?’ said Hemingway. ‘Not he!’
‘Well, if you won’t have him in it, how was it done, sir?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Hemingway, ‘but if I didn’t have a lot of yapping going on in my ear, I might be able to figure it out!’
The Sergeant relapsed into silence. Hemingway presently brought his gaze to bear on that offended countenance. ‘That hair-trigger pull,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir, I know. I’ve been thinking about that, too. I’ve heard of guns being fired by the opening of a door, but this was out in the open, in full view of a couple of people who hadn’t a thing to do with it – for you won’t tell me Jones or Miss White were mixed up in the murder!’
‘That’s an idea,’ said Hemingway. ‘The opening of a door. Not bad, Wake, not at all bad! But you’re wrong: it won’t do. There couldn’t have been any sort of string tied to that gate on to the bridge, because for one thing it would have been seen, and for another the rifle was about twenty yards off.’