“I've hunted for more blood-traces about the house; and I've found two or three small ones—a track leading from the room to the front door. There was less blood than I expected, though.”
He produced a blood-soaked handkerchief.
“This was picked up near the corner of Lauderdale Avenue, sir, this morning after the fog cleared away. It has an H in one corner. You remember we found no handkerchief on Hassendean's body. Evidently he was using this one to staunch his wounds, and he probably let it drop out of the car at the place where it was found. The doctor said there might be very little external bleeding, you remember; and the handkerchief's mopped up a fair amount of what happened to ooze out.”
Sir Clinton again acquiesced, and the Inspector proceeded.
“I've taken the finger-prints from all three bodies, sir. They're filed for reference, if need be. And I've had a good look at that side-window at the bungalow. There's no doubt that someone must have been standing there; but the traces are so poor that nothing can be done in the way of a permanent record.
“One can't even see the shape of the man's boot, let alone any fine details.”
“Anything more?” Sir Clinton inquired. “You seem to have been fairly putting your back into it.”
Flamborough's face showed his appreciation of the compliment implied in the words.
“I've drafted an advertisement—worded it very cautiously of course—asking Mr. Justice to favour us with some further information, if he has any in stock. That's been sent off already; it'll be in the Evening Observer to-night, and in both the morning papers to-morrow.”
“Good! Though I shouldn't get too optimistic over the results, if I were you, Inspector.”