“Well, there isn't, and I should say there never was. Our operator didn't leave much to chance. We were meant to find the one under the gorse-bush. We weren't meant to find the other, and we shan't.”
He led the way into the study as he spoke, leaving the door open, so that he could hear any approaching footsteps.
“Over by the desk!” he said briefly. “He was probably shot while he was sitting behind it. There wouldn't have been much blood, but there must have been some.”
“There was none on the papers we found on the desk,” Harbottle reminded him. “And I see no sign of any on the desk itself.”
“The top of it, according to young Haswell, and to Carsethorn, was littered over with papers. I don't doubt they got spattered, and were carefully removed. We'll get Warrenby's clerk to go through the lot I took away: he may know if anything's missing. Try the window-curtains, and the woodwork of the window! I want to have a good look at the carpet.”
The carpet was a thick Turkey rug, with a groundwork of red, and a sprawling pattern of blue and green. On his hands and knees, Hemingway said: “Fresh blood falling on this wouldn't show up. He might have missed it. A couple of spots is all I ask for!”
“There's nothing on the curtains,” the Inspector informed him. “However, they hang well clear of the long window, so there might not be.” He too dropped on to his knees and closely studied the floorboards. “You'd expect to see a sign on the floor, though.”
“The murderer must have looked to see, and if there was blood on any of the woodwork he'd have wiped it carefully. May have tied something round Warrenby's head before he moved him. Come here, and tell me what you make of this!”
The Inspector went to him, took the magnifying-glass held out to him, and through it stared at two very small spots on the carpet which showed darker than the surrounding red. “Might be,” he grunted.
“Cut 'em off!” commanded Hemingway. “It's a lucky thing it's one of these shaggy rugs. Give me that glass again.”