Hemingway told him. He listened in attentive silence, surprise in his face, and a good deal of respect, but when Hemingway reached the end of his story, and said, with a rueful smile: “I missed a lot of points on this case, and I don't deny it,” he gave a gasp, and exclaimed: “Did you, indeed? You must set yourself a pretty high standard! But this alters the whole case! If the murder was committed between 6.00 and 6.30 you've narrowed the field considerably.”
“Unless it was committed by someone we know nothing about, which I don't think, sir, it's narrowed to four people, only two of whom seem at all likely. Those unaccounted for at that time are the Vicar, Mr. Haswell, young Ladislas, and Gavin Plenmeller. If the Vicar got hold of a gun on the side, and shot Warrenby, or anyone else, with it, I'm resigning before I get kicked out. I can't form an opinion about Mr. Haswell, because he's not one who gives away much, but I don't at all fancy him, for various reasons—the principal one being that I haven't discovered even a hint of a motive for his having wanted to put Warrenby away.”
“I'm pretty confident you won't,” said the Colonel. “I've known him for years—in point of fact, he's a friend of mine—and although a thing like that mustn't be allowed to weigh with either of us, it does enable me to say that if he murdered Warrenby I've been deceived in his character ever since I first knew him!”
“That's all right, sir: he's not my fancy by any means. Which leaves us with Ladislas, and Plenmeller. And of those two I prefer Plenmeller.”
“The Pole—Ladislas, as you call him—has a definite motive,” the Colonel pointed out. “Plenmeller, I agree, is perhaps the more likely of the two to have thought out and executed such a careful murder, but he seems to have had no motive at all.”
“I wouldn't be too sure of that, sir. It's what I particularly wanted to talk to you about. One thing he had which, so far as we know, no one else had, and that's an automatic pistol of the calibre we're looking for. It's listed amongst his brother's guns, and it wasn't in his gun-cabinet when I went to his house. Of course, there's no saying what kind of an armoury Ladislas may have, but I never yet heard that a .22 pistol was issued by any army, English or foreign. And if it wasn't a leftover from the War, I don't know how he could have come by it, for, unless I'm very much mistaken, he's not a member of the underworld, and he wouldn't have the ghost of a notion how to get hold of an illicit gun. So that leaves Gavin Plenmeller, and it's about him I want to consult you, sir.”
“I can't tell you a thing,” the Colonel said. “I don't like the fellow; I agree that he'd be capable of planning such a murder; but I know of no reason why he should have done it—unless you think the thrillers he writes have gone to his head, and he wanted to prove he could baffle the police!”
“No, I don't think that, sir—though I don't doubt he thinks he can baffle us. I've got a strong suspicion it's the old story of a man getting away with one murder, and believing that because he's fooled the police once he can do it again.”
The Colonel sat up with a jerk. “What? Good God, are you suggesting—?”
“I want to know just what happened when Walter Plenmeller was supposed to have committed suicide,” said Hemingway.