“That's why I need an excuse. By what the Colonel tells me this Reverend Anthony Cliburn is just the man I want to give me the low-down on this high-class set-up. So far, I've had to listen to Mrs. Midgeholme, who thinks Lindale murdered Warrenby, because Mrs. Lindale gave her a raspberry; and to Drybeck, who's in a blue funk; and to Plenmeller, who wants to be funny; and I'm getting muddled. When you want to know the ins and outs of village-life, Horace, go and talk to the Vicar! Not that it's any use telling you that, because you haven't got the art of making people talk, which is what becomes of drinking sarsaparilla instead of an honest glass of beer.”
“Anything in Warrenby's papers, sir?” said the Inspector coldly.
“Nothing that looks like doing us any good. We may find something at his office tomorrow, but I shall be surprised if we do.”
The Inspector grunted, and sat down. He watched Hemingway collect the papers into a pile, and then said: “There is something that strikes me, Chief.”
“Second time today. You're coming on,” said Hemingway encouragingly. “Go on! Don't keep me on tenterhooks!”
“From the moment I was told the shot was probably fired from a .22 rifle,” said the Inspector, “I've been turning it over in my mind, wondering what was done with that rifle. Because it seems to me it would be taking a big risk to walk away with it over your shoulder, or under your arm. Who's to say you'd meet no one? But I watched you go off up the street with Plenmeller, Chief, and it came to me then that if anyone could walk about with a rifle concealed he could push it down his left trouser-leg, and, with that queer limp of his, no one would notice a thing.”
“Not bad at all, Horace!” approved Hemingway. “Now tell me why he takes it home, and puts it back in the gun-cabinet, instead of dropping it in the river, or somebody's backyard—which is just the sort of little joke that would appeal to him, I should think. He inherited his guns from that brother of his; he doesn't shoot himself—which I believe, because, for one thing, he's not the kind of fool who'd tell lies to the police which they could easily disprove, and, for another, I noticed that the guns in that cabinet were showing signs of rust—and if he'd chosen to say that he didn't know where the rifle was, and hadn't even known it wasn't in the cabinet, it would have been a difficult job to prove it hadn't been pinched. Because it could have been, easy! His door's kept on the latch, and he's got a deaf housekeeper.” He got up, glancing at the marble clock over the fireplace. “I'm going to turn in, and you'd better do the same, or you'll start brooding, or get struck by another idea, which would be bad for my heart.”
The Inspector rose, and after eyeing his chief for a pregnant moment, addressed himself to the vase of pampas-grass in a musing tone. “If I had to explain why I like my present job, I'm blessed if I could do it!”
“If you're thinking the B.B.C. is going to ask you to take part in a programme, you needn't worry!” retorted Hemingway. “They won't!”
“How Sandy Grant put up with it as long as he did I don't know!” said Harbottle.