A Sergeant had come round at once, with the police surgeon, and, upon discovering the name of the deceased, had instantly connected it with the Vereker case, which he had been following in the newspapers with a good deal of interest. He had taken care not to touch anything in the flat, but had notified the Station Sergeant, who, in his turn, had rung up the Divisional Inspector.
“And though it looks like an ordinary suicide, Superintendent, I thought it proper to advise you before going any further,” ended the Inspector.
“Quite right,” Hannasyde answered. He glanced down at the pistol, and then at the dead man, his lips slightly pursed. “We'll have a photograph, I think,” he decided, and opened the door to give a brief order.
Sergeant Hemingway came in with the photographer, and went to stand beside Giles Carrington while the flashlight-photograph was taken, and the dead man's body removed. “Looks like we know who murdered Arnold Vereker, sir,” he said cheerfully.
“It does, doesn't it?” agreed Giles.
The Sergeant looked sharply up at him. “You don't think so, sir? Now, why?”
“I didn't say so,” replied Giles, his gaze resting for a moment on a meerschaum pipe lying on the mantelpiece.
“It fits together all right,” argued the Sergeant. “He knew we were on his track; guessed, maybe, we should break that alibi of his; lost his nerve; and put a bullet through his head. It fits; you can't say it doesn't, sir.”
“No, it fits beautifully,” said Giles.
“And still you don't like it. Would it be family feeling, sir, if I may make so bold as to ask?”