“Just come in,” said Harbottle, handing him a sealed envelope.
Hemingway tore it open, and drew out the single sheet it contained, and spread it open. “Not a sausage!” he said, assimilating its message.
“You mean to tell me, sir, that not one of the rifles we've tested is the one we're after?”
“Not one!” said Hemingway cheerfully. “What's more, don't need a comparing microscope to convince me the Vicar's rifle isn't the right one either. It'll have to be tested, of course, but you can put it out of your head, Horace! If every witness was as honest as that kid you saw, you'd be a Chief Inspector, instead of stooging round with me, and thinking how much better you could do the job yourself!”
“I don't,” said Harbottle, his rare smile flickering across his face. “But if the fatal shot wasn't fired from any of the rifles we've pulled in, nor yet from the one you have now, then it seems to me that we shall have to pull in some of the others which you wouldn't even let me tell you about!”
“We may,” agreed Hemingway. “On the other hand, we may not. I'm beginning to get some funny ideas about this case, Horace. However, there'll be time enough to tell you what they are when we've attended the inquest.” He glanced at his watch. “Which we'd better be thinking about,” he added. “What will you bet me the Deputy Coroner will be playing to capacity?”
“If he is, people will be disappointed,” said Harbottle. “I suppose you'll ask for an adjournment pretty quick on the doctor's evidence?”
“I probably will,” said Hemingway. “It all depends.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Chief Inspector was right. As he and Harbottle elbowed their way through the throng of persons seeking admission to the courtroom, he said, over his shoulder: “What did I tell you? Turning them away at the doors!”