“It’s extraordinary what simple things one doesn’t think of at times,” said the inspector wisely.
“But in that case,” Roger observed thoughtfully, “wouldn’t you expect to find the other thing he had been typing? It can hardly have left the room, can it?”
“That’s impossible to say,” said the inspector, with the air of one closing the subject. “We don’t in the least know what Mr. Stanworth did last night. He might have gone out and posted a letter or two before he shot himself; and unless anyone happened to see him we could never know whether he did or not. Now I take it, sir,” he added, turning to Major Jefferson, “that Mr. Stanworth was a rather brusque, decisive sort of man?”
Jefferson considered. “Decisive, certainly. But I don’t know whether you would call him brusque exactly. Why?”
“The wording of this statement. It’s a bit—well, out of the ordinary, isn’t it?”
“It’s quite typical,” said Jefferson shortly.
“It is? That’s what I’m getting at. Now have you any idea at all as to the reasons he hints at?”
“Not in the least. I’m absolutely in the dark.”
“Ah! Well, perhaps Lady Stanworth will be able to throw some light on that point later.” He strolled over to the door and began to examine the lock.
Roger drew Alec aside. “You know, this is jolly interesting, this business,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen the police at work before. But the story books are all wrong. This man isn’t a fool by any means; very far from it. He caught me out properly over that typing; and twice at that. Perfectly obvious points when they’re mentioned, of course; and I can’t think why they didn’t occur to me. That’s the trouble with an idée fixe; you can’t see beyond it, or even round it. Hullo; he’s trying the windows now.”