"That's what I mean. I daresay no one would have noticed if that knife had been taken out of the sheath quite a while before the murder was committed. It isn't even as if it was on a line with your eyes: you have to look up to catch sight of it."
"What's more important," said Hemingway, "is that it could have been put back at any time. After everyone had gone to bed, as like as not. So now perhaps you begin to see that the chances are that this nasty-looking dagger is going to rank as a matter of purely academic interest."
Chapter Twelve
The Inspector had barely packed the knife and its sheath away into a case when Sturry entered the room, and stood upon the threshold with an expression of lofty resignation on his face. Hemingway, no respecter of persons, said: "Well, what do you want?"
Sturry gave him a quelling look, and replied with meticulous politeness: "Mr. Joseph, Inspector, desired me to enquire whether you, and the Other Policeman, will be requiring luncheon. If this should be the case, a Cold Collation will be served in the morning-room."
"No, thanks," said Hemingway, who had no opinion of cold collations at midwinter.
Sturry bowed slightly. His arctic gaze took in the position of the chair which the Sergeant had used to enable him to reach the knives on the wall, and travelled upwards. He acknowledged the disappearance of one of the pair of knives by a pronounced elevation of the eyebrows, and moved forward to restore the chair to its place against the wall. He then plumped up a couple of cushions, looked with contempt at the partially dismantled Christmas tree, and at last withdrew.
The Sergeant, who had been watching him with considerable disfavour, said: "I don't like that chap."
"That's only inferiority complex," said Hemingway. "You didn't like being called the Other Policeman."
"Snooping round," said the Sergeant darkly. "He saw the knife had gone all right. He'll spread that bit of news round the house."