"Not grammatically!" retorted Creighton with a grin, much as if his friend's query had freed him from a spell. "Piffle, Krech. If a woman like that—high-strung, nervous—were to kill a man it would be in some swift fit of passion. Varr's death came as the climax of a deliberate campaign of persecution. She isn't capable of that."
"If you can tell me what any woman can or can't do—"
"Oh, I grant them an infinite capacity for surprising a man! However, this interesting little interlude isn't getting us anywhere. Come into the living-room. I want a look at that window before daylight goes."
"The police have probably mucked that all up," said Mr. Krech gloomily.
"I heard one of the detectives tell Norvallis they had found nothing. Anyway, if I don't miss my guess, they were so satisfied with something they're keeping up their sleeve that I don't believe they paid more than cursory attention to other details. Just gave everything a perfunctory once-over and let it go at that."
"What have they got, Creighton? Do you know?"
"Charlie Maxon seems an attractive prospect," replied the detective. They had gone to the window in the living-room and he was busily engaged upon the same eager scrutiny that he had given the desk. "They may have discovered something that links him with the murder—that business of taking plaster casts of footprints is very suggestive. Maxon could have reached here after breaking jail in plenty of time to knife Varr in keeping with the schedule as we know it. He's an ugly customer by reputation, and he certainly had no reason to love Simon Varr."
"How did he get the dagger? He didn't steal it, because the evening it was stolen he was safe in the hoosgow."
"Correct, Krech, absolutely correct." The detective was intently studying the brass lock of the door through his powerful glass. "Now you've started thinking, persevere! If Maxon committed the murder but didn't steal the knife, what's the answer?"
"An accomplice!" cried Krech. "A whole gang, perhaps!"