“More likely, followed the line of the coppice behind it,” suggested the Chief Constable, with a glance at a big map hung on the wall by his desk. “He’d be hidden from view, that way.”
“Well, that way, then,” agreed Blick. “Anyhow, he comes to Deep Lane. Going down there, he resolves to get rid of his weapon. There are any amount of holes in the banks there, behind the banks and the undergrowth at the foot of the high hedgerows. He pushes aside the bushes and drops his weapon into one of the deepest holes. And there it might have lain for ages—if it hadn’t been for Fransemmery’s dog.”
“Well, you’ve found it, anyway, and the next thing to do is to find out to whom it belongs,” said the Chief Constable. “Stiff business, but it can be done.” He picked up the automatic pistol, which Blick had laid before him, and looked at it with speculative eyes. “Seems to be brand-new,” he remarked. “I wonder if it was bought from anybody about here?”
“I’m going to enquire into that at once,” answered Blick. “Such things can be bought in Selcaster, I suppose?”
“You can buy sporting guns and revolvers in plenty,” replied the Chief Constable. “And no doubt things of this sort. There are two or three gunsmiths in the city, and of course there are ironmongers and hardware dealers who sell fire-arms.” He picked up a small volume from amongst a row of reference books on his desk. “Local directory,” he explained. “You’ll find names and addresses there.”
Blick made a list of names, and went out on a voyage of discovery. He called on half a dozen tradesmen, who, once they were aware of his identity and business, and had been pledged to secrecy, were only too ready to chat confidentially with a famous London detective. But they could give him no information—not one had seen the automatic pistol before. It was not until he made his last call that he got any help or signs of it. Then, however, the shopkeeper was somewhat doubtful as to whether he hadn’t seen that particular article before, some time or other.
“I’ve an idea that we may have supplied that,” he remarked. “But I’ll tell you what—you look in here about six o’clock this evening, or any time between that and seven. For this reason: I have a branch shop at Chilhampton, and my manager is there today, and won’t be back till late this afternoon. Now, if we ever sold that pistol—as I fancy we did—he’ll know all about it, and who the purchaser was; he’s more up in that department than I am. Come again at six or thereabouts; if I’m not in, ask for Mr. Waters, and tell him what you’ve told me. You can trust him.”
Blick thanked him and went out. A policeman who stood staring around him on the opposite side of the street, caught sight of and came across to him.
“The Chief sent me out to look for you, Mr. Blick,” he announced as he came up. “He says will you go back to his office?—there’s a young man called that he wants you to see. This Markenmore affair, he said.”
Blick hurried back to the police-station, and to the Chief Constable’s room. In a chair by the fireside sat the young man to whom the policeman had referred, watching the Chief Constable, who was reading and signing documents. He was a very meek and mild young man, thought Blick, as far as appearance went; an intellectual of some sort, evidently. He had a very high, broad forehead; a mass of long and untidy hair brushed back from it; a pair of large, somewhat brilliant eyes; a wide, sensitive mouth, and a generally high-strung aspect. Blick’s sharp eyes took all this in at a glance; he also observed that the young man’s black coat was very much stained in front, as though he was in the bad habit of spilling things on it, and that his long, delicately-fashioned fingers were also stained—his hands, in fact, from wrists to finger-tips were disfigured with odd patches of green, purples, and scarlets. A queer-looking chap, thought the detective, and yet, no ordinary one.