“Well, looking at it from the psychological angle, sir, I should say he'd go in for something a bit more classy.”
“Railway cloakroom?”
Hemingway shook his head. “Too hackneyed for him. Besides, he might expect it to be one of the first places I'd check up on, if ever I got on to the real weapon. If this were London, I should want to know if he rented a safe deposit, but I don't suppose you've got any here, have you?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Ah, well! I daresay it would have been a bit too obvious anyway,” said Hemingway philosophically. “He's probably put it somewhere I should never think of looking for it, which means that I shall have to rely more than I like on circumstantial evidence, or read all the books he's written, on the chance that he's used the idea before.”
The Sergeant, who had been thinking profoundly, said abruptly: “You know what, sir? Mr. Plenmeller ought to have handed in his brother's guns as soon as he was dead. It's illegal for him to keep them. I don't mean it's a thing we should make a fuss about, in the circumstances, because very likely he isn't well-up in the regulations, and he may think that if the licence for them hasn't run out, which it hasn't, it's all right for him to hang on to them. How would it be if I was to send one of our chaps out to call on him, like it was a routine-job? Just a uniformed constable, sent to explain that all this business has brought it to the attention of the police that the late Mr. Plenmeller's guns were never handed in, and that they must be. He can have a list of them, and check it over with Mr. Gavin Plenmeller. What's Mr. Plenmeller going to do then?”
“Hand over the guns in the cabinet, and deny all knowledge of the Colt,” answered Hemingway promptly.
“If he did that, it would look pretty suspicious, wouldn't it, sir?”
“It would, but you'd never prove he was lying. From what I've seen of Mr. Gavin Plenmeller, I wouldn't envy your uniformed constable his job, either. He'd find Gavin all readiness to oblige, and he could think himself lucky if he got away without having had to help turn out every chest and cupboard trunk in the house in an attempt to find the gun. And all he'd have achieved at the end would be to have put Plenmeller wise to what I'm up to. No, thanks! I'd as soon that gentleman went on thinking he's fooled me until I'm ready to put handcuffs on him. You never know: he might take it into his head I'd look well on a mortuary-slab.”
“He wouldn't dare do that!” said the Sergeant, grinning broadly.