“And you may wonder,” the inspector said. “How many crooks are there with thick ears? And that’s the only identification you have. All this stuff don’t help to put anyone in the dock.”
“Oh, no. No. That’s a long way off. But you might try.” He looked plaintively at Bell. “Relations between the late Mrs. Blunt and the man Garner?”
“There’s no mystery about that.” The inspector was quick to answer. “Mr. Garner and Blunt were both after the woman, and she chose Blunt. That was a bad bet, if you like. Mr. Garner must have been really gone on her, too. He’s never married. He was always helping the Blunts as long as she lived, and Blunt, going downhill, took all he could get - that’s how Mr. Garner came to lend her the money for Blunt’s fire insurance when it was overdue just before the fire. You saw that in the report of the trial, did you?”
“I did. Yes. Very interesting,” Reggie murmured. “Well, well. My other little point. What about the chauffeur. Bell - the soundly sleepin’, vanishin’ chauffeur?”
“We’ve found him, sir. Nothing in his disappearance,” Bell answered. “Regular business with Goldschild. Underwood’s put him through it.”
And Underwood took up the tale. “I should say the chauffeur’s quite straight, sir. But there’s a bit of funny stuff. He had more than a pint at his pub on the Sunday night. He don’t own to being fuddled, of course, but you can take it that’s why he slept heavy. Then, about his saying he saw Blunt round Goldschild’s place as he came home - he thinks he saw a man; he believes it was Blunt. But he seems to have got that out of talking things over with this chap Garner, who lives near Goldschild. He met Garner next morning, and was telling him about the burglary, and Garner said when he was coming home from chapel he thought he saw Blunt about. That’s his story now.”
“Oh.” Reggie’s voice was soft. “My little point was a point, Bell.”
“Yes it was,” Bell agreed. “That identification of Blunt won’t do.”
“No. Elusive evidence, the evidence against Blunt.”
“I like your saying that, Mr. Fortune,” the inspector exploded. “It was you worked out the burglar lay up in Blunts’ hut - you, and nobody else but you. And now you take it all back.”
“My poor chap! Oh, my poor chap,” Reggie moaned. “Not a good listener. I said the burglar went to the hut. I didn’t say he was Blunt. Far otherwise. He wasn’t. I described him for you. You can’t find him. Your error.”
“You said the Blunts were in it with him.”
“Oh no. No. You only listen to yourself. I said Jessie Blunt helped him when he was out of action.”
“I don’t mind telling you, I don’t believe in any other man at all,” the inspector said vehemently. “It’s just theory, your stuff about the Smiler, not a scrap of fact to corroborate. I believe the damaged chap in the hut was Blunt himself.”
“You would, yes,” Reggie murmured. “Your only evidence against Blunt havin’ gone west.”
“Has it!” The inspector laughed. “Would you be surprised to hear I’ve got some more? Look at that.”
It was a letter addressed to the Chief Detective, Bournham Police Station. It said: “If you want to catch the Blunts, watch them after church next Sunday.” All this was in block letters.
“Well, well.” Reggie looked up from it to survey the inspector. His round face was without expression. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to watch ‘em, you bet,” said the inspector.
“Yes. I should say you’re right,” Reggie agreed. “Try everything. Without prejudice.”
“Thank you. I’m glad to have your approval.” The inspector was heavily ironical. He turned to Bell. “Well, sir, that’s the whole of it, then. We finish up with what I started from. I’ll just get on with it, eh?”
“Carry on.” Bell dismissed him.
“Forceful fellow,” Reggie murmured.
“You don’t like him, do you?” Bell frowned.
“Not much, no. ‘All zeal, Mr. Easy.’”
“He’s straight, you know.”
“Yes. Absolutely. Havin’ no power of direction. Dangerous type. Queer case. Bell. Confusin’ case. So many factors. And we’re not doin’ anything ourselves. We’re only makin’ objections. I don’t like that. Good - bye.” …
On the Sunday night, as he was smoking his last pipe over the final glass of seltzer water, his telephone rang. “Underwood speaking, Mr. Fortune,” said the telephone. “The superintendent says could you come out at once to Bournham Hospital. We’ve got that man Garner here in no end of a mess. Smashed up and unconscious.”
“Well, well.” Reggie’s gentle voice conveyed a mild surprise, a mild satisfaction. “While the zealous inspector was watchin’ the Blunts. As instructed. All right. I’ll come and look at Mr. Garner. A duty and a pleasure.”
Garner lay in a private room, unconscious. His face was swollen and discoloured with bruises. His left hand had a bandage on it. Reggie bent over him… . The resident doctor and a nurse assisted… . After head and body had been examined, Reggie looked at the bandaged hand, and looked at the doctor with rising eyebrows. “That beats me, Mr. Fortune,” the doctor said. He took off the bandage, and showed that the little finger had been torn away from the bottom joint. Reggie studied the wound. …” Well, well.” He sighed and frowned at it, and took the doctor out of the room. “What do you say?”
