“Thirty-seven of them, which I never had any interest in, and never shall,” said Hemingway. “I wish you'd pull yourself together, Horace! Up till today we've never considered any weapon but a rifle, because the range seemed to make it certain it could only have been a rifle shot. Which is another of the things we were meant to think. We've now got every reason to believe Warrenby was shot at much closer range, and I want to know just what lethal weapons there are in the neighbourhood.”
“Carsethorn said something about the Major's army revolver, but that won't do, because—”
“Of course it won't! It's the wrong calibre! Stop trying to annoy me!” said Hemingway, opening the register.
Silence reigned for a few minutes. Suddenly Hemingway looked up. “We're getting warmer, Horace. I find here that when his firearms permit was last renewed, a couple of years back, the late Walter Plenmeller had a .22 Colt Woodsman Automatic Pistol in his collection. Which, let me tell you, was not in the gun-cabinet at Thornden House. Now then!”
The Inspector came quickly round the corner of the desk to stare down at the entry.
“Could you carry a gun like that without anyone's knowing it?” demanded Hemingway.
“I suppose it could be done,” admitted Harbottle. “But—Good Lord, sir, what for?”
“Seems to me it's time we did a little research into Plenmeller's affairs,” said Hemingway, rather grimly.
“Yes, I see we shall have to, but what I'm thinking is that no one here knows anything against him. And I can't help feeling that if there was anything we should have been told fast enough. People don't like him, and the way they've all been searching for clues and motives you'd have expected several of them to have sicked us on to him, wouldn't you?”
“No, I wouldn't. Whatever it was that Warrenby found out—if that was the motive for his murder—you can bet your life it was something no one else knew anything about. That's obvious.”