“—Not more than half-an-hour before we came into the room, so Eames couldn't have done it, for more reasons than one.”
“I saw you try the electric torch in that American gent.'s bag, sir,” Watts threw in.
“Just so. It was out of order. He didn't say a word about that in his evidence downstairs. You noticed those marks on the top of the wardrobe, where someone had evidently passed a stiff brush over it, presumably to do away with any finger marks or streaks?”
“I did, sir. And wasn't his—I mean Mr. Beale's—clothes-brush in a fearful state. He did look put out when you picked it up first thing.”
The Chief Inspector nodded with a grim smile. “Aye, he did. He might have thought it less of a give-away if he'd known that all along he had a fine smear of dust on the under part of his sleeve. A smear that could only have been got up there. The manager's coat was clean, though that proves little. I hope you noticed the washstand before the doctor washed his hands?”
Watts was an honest young fellow, and he flushed by way of answer.
“The towel was damp, so was the soap. So was the inside of the basin. The jug was half empty, but there wasn't a drop of water in the pail. Whatever water had been used had been flung out of the window. It's been pouring so hard all day that a bit more or less would never be noticed. But the fact is odd. Why should anyone mind pouring the basin into the pail?”
“The water was too black after that wardrobe top,” laughed Watts. The Chief Inspector was popular with his men, and Watts was, moreover, a distant connection.
“Then that chest of drawers. You know the feeling of using a key after a pass-key?”
“As though the lock were stuck, sir?”