Baddeley closed the library door behind us and gestured to us to be seated. “I don’t purpose troubling Sir Charles Considine at the moment,” he informed us, “for one or two reasons—but I do feel, gentlemen, that I’ve reached a stage in the investigations of this affair when I’m bound to talk things over with somebody.” He paused and produced his pipe which he proceeded to fill, slowly and deliberately. Then he continued. “Early on, Mr. Bathurst, you had a little joke with me about going fifty-fifty in regard to our discoveries ... well ... it’s like this ... I seem to be properly up against the most baffling set of clues it’s ever been my good fortune—or bad, if you like—to encounter.” He struck a match and lit the tobacco. “In all probability I’ve been able to get information that you haven’t, Mr. Bathurst—that sort of thing’s my job so you’re starting a bit ‘scratch’ as it were—still I’m going to play the game and put all the cards on the table.”
Anthony waved a deprecating hand. “Quite so—Inspector.”
Baddeley eyed him warily—then went on again.
“There’s a young fellow murdered and a pearl necklace stolen in the same house on the same night. The robbery is cleared up pretty quickly—thanks to you, Mr. Bathurst—and the question arises—the natural question if I may call it so—what connection, if any, is there between the two?”
Anthony broke in. “Do you want me to answer that?”
Baddeley held up his hand. “Not for the moment, sir! Let me go on for a bit. My reason tells me that there is a connection—because the murdered man was strangled with a shoe-lace, and the man pinched for the robbery has, as far as I can tell—the identical shoe-lace in his pocket. I’m not exactly a scholar, gentlemen, but you can say he’s caught ‘in flagrante delicto.’” He looked at us.
Anthony was smiling. “Go ahead, Inspector,” was all that he said.
“Well, sir—that’s what reason tells me! But instinct tells me just the opposite—I can’t get the times to fit—nothing seems to link up just in the way that it should—and I’ve got a decidedly uneasy feeling that I’ve missed my way somewhere.” He puffed at his pipe. “I’m going to do a lot of talking, gentlemen; can you put up with it?” He proceeded without waiting for our reply.
“Usually, there’s a motive sticking out in these cases. But I’m damned if I can find a really satisfactory one here. Robbery? I don’t think so—he had no money on him when he was found—but his chief card winnings hadn’t been paid over, and it isn’t likely he was carrying a very large sum about with him. Robbery for something that he possessed? The I.O.U. for instance? Possibly! Revenge? Again—possibly! But if so for something that has, so far, eluded me. Still—we’ll concede—a distinct possibility. You see—we aren’t nearing probabilities yet. And probabilities are much more satisfactory than mere possibilities. Now there’s that very mysterious piece of work with the Venetian Dagger.”
He stopped again as though to let his words sink well in. Anthony grew very attentive, and I found myself more responsive, so to speak, to the Inspector’s mood.