“Clever scheme!” Watts breathed, who was following his Superior's account with breathless interest.
“A simple one, for if it hadn't succeeded—if Eames hadn't drunk the medicine, but had disliked the taste and thrown it away—the poisoner could try again. As for Mr. Beale, we have had word from the American Embassy not to bring him in in any way.”
“Do you think there's any chance of the affair turning out to be political, sir?” asked Watts. “The manager, you know, is Irish—Hughes—and Eames is an Irish name, and so is Beale.”
“Let's hope for all our sakes it won't be that! If there's one thing that's calculated to break a policeman's heart first, and his career afterwards, it's a political case.” The mere suggestion covered the Chief Inspector's face with gloom. “Tails all over the place you mustn't step on,” he added, after a long pull at his pipe.
“Seen the picture of Eames in the late editions, sir?” asked Watts, laying one before him. “I don't call it a good likeness myself.”
“As unlike him as they could make it,” agreed Pointer. “We've asked the Colonial papers to copy the picture, but much good a smudge like that will do.”
“Something unforeseen may turn up from it, though,” suggested Watts.
“Not in this case,” corrected Pointer with conviction. “Everything unforeseen will have to be looked for with a searchlight, in my opinion;” and Watts was too much impressed by the medicine-bottle clue which Pointer had picked out to answer.
“Now, then, Watts”—the Chief Inspector turned to business again—“I want you to find out whether Beale, or the manager, or anyone corresponding to the description of Cox, has been buying any morphium in London. Take Eames' snapshot, too, though that's hardly likely to be needed.” He went into careful details of the men and taxis he could have to help him.
For two days Watts searched London, but found nothing to prove that any of the three men had ever been near a chemist save Cox, that one time when he had bought the fatal bottle. Meantime nothing transpired at the Yard about Eames. Letters flowed in by the score purporting to recognise the printed likeness, but all the patient investigations of the police only proved that the recognition was mistaken. In Canada a terrific forest fire was raging, and under the circumstances the Yard could hardly press for larger space to be given to the picture of an unknown Englishman. At the Enterprise there had been practically no changes—at least from the first floor, and nothing had as yet transpired which could give the casting hither and thither police any definite trail.