“Pity. He might have been able to wise us up. Something odd about this.”
“I don't see anything odd about it. The woman you've seen must be his mistress. It does happen, you know!”
Hemingway was frowning, and ignored this frivolity. “It hasn't got that appearance,” he said. “She isn't that type at all. It isn't that kind of household, either. Well, never mind! I've got another job I want done. Now, listen, Bob!”
He was still talking to Hinckley when Inspector Harbottle came into the office. The Inspector wore his usual air of impenetrable gloom, a circumstance which prompted his superior to tell the Superintendent that he must now ring off. “Because Dismal Desmond's just come in, and I can see he's suffered a bereavement. So-long, Bob!”
“If that was the Superintendent,” said Harbottle, eyeing him severely, “has he had the report on any of the bullets yet, sir?”
“Only the first. Nothing like the one we're after. We shall be getting the rest tomorrow.”
“It was not fired from Plenmeller's rifle?” said Harbottle, a strong inflexion of disappointment in his voice. “Well, I'm surprised!”
“I'm not,” replied Hemingway. “I fancy I see that bird leaving the rifle in the case for me to pick up, if he'd shot Warrenby with it!”
“Well,” said Harbottle, dissatisfied, “of all the people I've seen down here, I'd say he was the likeliest. I don't mind telling you, Chief, I took a dislike to him the instant I laid eyes on him.”
“I know you did, and I'll do my best to bring it home to him,” said Hemingway, who was jotting down various items in his notebook.