The man looked about him carefully, and suddenly pointed to the ceiling with an exclamation of astonishment. “Why, there’s the butt of a broken lamp in that holder, sir,” he said. “I didn’t put no lamps in before I left. That’s one of the things I came here to do to-day.”
“Well, take it out and put in a fresh lamp,” replied Whyland. “I didn’t know the current was on. We’ll be able to see what we’re doing.”
The electrician obeyed him, and no sooner had he put the new lamp in the holder than the cellar was flooded with light. “Hullo!” he exclaimed. “The switch is on. I’ll swear I left it off on Saturday. Why, that’s queer! This isn’t the butt of an ordinary lamp at all. Looks to me like one of them electric detonator things, made to go into a lamp-socket. And it’s gone off, too. You can see where it’s blackened, sir.”
“Was the current on on Saturday?” asked Whyland, quickly.
“Yes, sir, I connected up in the morning,” replied the electrician. “Somebody must have put that thing in the lamp-holder, then turned the switch on. Well, that’s a rum go, and no mistake.”
Whyland, having cautioned the man to say nothing until the inquest, left the house and walked into the confectioner’s shop. Here he interviewed Mr. Briggs and his daughter Marjorie, and obtained from them the story of Mr. Martin’s arrival at Number 407, and of the telephone message from Mr. Lacey. By this time the body had been conveyed to the mortuary, and Whyland set to work to examine the contents of the dead man’s pockets. His most interesting discoveries were the letter which he had received on Saturday morning and the missing key of Number 407.
The doctor arrived and performed his post-mortem, which confirmed the suspicions he had already formed. “Prussic acid, right enough, and a pretty powerful dose by the look of it. The queer thing about it is that he seems to have died from breathing the vapour rather than from swallowing the stuff. Looks as if he’d uncorked a bottle of the strong acid and sniffed at it. You didn’t see anything of the kind lying about the cellar, I suppose?”
Whyland shook his head. “No, I didn’t,” he replied. “The only thing I found lying about was a loaded automatic which hadn’t been fired.”
“What did I tell you?” said the doctor triumphantly. “Suicide, without a doubt. He took a pistol with him in case the stuff didn’t act. You’re suggesting that anybody murdered a powerful man like that by making him inhale prussic acid against his will, are you? Why, the idea’s absurd.”
Inspector Whyland left the mortuary in a very thoughtful frame of mind, and returned to the police station. Here he set the telephone to work and invoked the aid of his colleagues. By the middle of the afternoon he had collected some interesting information respecting both Martin and Lacey, upon which he began to build up his own theory as to the former’s death.