Lying in bed that night, Roger did not get to sleep very quickly. Apart from this fresh development of the case which in itself was enough to prolong his meditations well into the small hours, he had another problem to engage his attention scarcely less closely—why had the inspector emerged, practically unbidden, from his shell of reticence and volunteered this startling information? The pretext of picking his amateur colleague’s brains was of course only an empty excuse, for in the subsequent discussion it was the inspector who had taken the lead, pointed out the possibilities and established a workable theory; Roger had contributed nothing of any value to it. Why, in other words, had the inspector gone out of his way to drop unmistakable hints that the author of both crimes was Dr. Vane himself? It was only as he was at last dropping off to sleep that an illuminating answer occurred to him—the inspector had done this because that is what he wished Roger to think: his real theory was something entirely different!
Shaving the next morning, Roger pursued this train of thought. That certainly was the explanation of the inspector’s otherwise inexplicable conduct. Laughing maliciously up his sleeve, he had been trying to head the officious journalist, against whom he already had a score to pay, not toward the truth but away from it. Roger grinned at his reflection in the mirror: very well, but two could play at that game. Likewise, forewarned was forearmed. He began to ponder a plan of campaign which should end in extracting the wind from the inspector’s sails.
Obviously the only thing to do was to go straight ahead with his investigations as if nothing had been said. It was possible of course that Dr. Vane really was the murderer, although the inspector clearly did not think so. Nor for that matter did Roger himself. Not that Dr. Vane struck him as likely to shrink from murder if murder should be necessary, but somehow he did not feel him as the murderer of his wife—he could put it no more reasonably than that; the eliminator of Meadows, yes, quite possibly; but not the other.
And in that connection, was it so unlikely that the two deaths should have been brought about by different agents? The inspector had pretended to think so and had certainly made out a strong case to support his hypothesis, but did that not now point all the more strongly to the opposite conclusion? The inspector had been at some pains even to labour the point; all the more reason therefore to suspect that his real opinion was just the opposite. Well, well, things did seem to be getting really very involved. The only way of straightening them out was to keep a clear head, forget no possibilities and yet allow none to bias him unduly—and might the best sleuth win!
Roger brushed his hair with his usual care, put on his coat and walked demurely down to breakfast.
The inspector was already half-way through his meal, and Anthony had not put in an appearance. For ten minutes the two exchanged platitudes, the topic bulking largest in both of their minds being as if by common consent avoided. Then the inspector mumbled something about having a busy day in front of him and took his departure. Almost simultaneously Anthony entered the room.
Roger helped himself to marmalade and watched Anthony scoop the remainder of the dish of bacon and eggs on to his plate. He had devoted some earnest thought between platitudes during the last ten minutes to the promise the inspector had extracted from him the evening before, and while deprecating any temptation to break it even in the circumstances, fancied that he had found a blameless way round it. “Anthony,” he began with some care, “you’re on duty this morning.”
“Right-ho!” said Anthony with equanimity. “But what’s the idea? Nothing for us to do, is there?”