“You have me,” said Deacon, “on the hip. That’s the most amazing bit of jiggery pokery about all this hocus pocus. What about ’em to you?”
“They certainly savour,” Anthony said, “of hanky panky. In fact, since I know they’re yours and that you didn’t kill Hoode, I know they must be. Now, have you seen that wood-rasp?”
“Yes. At the inquest.”
“Never before?”
“Not as I knows on, guv’nor. In fact, I’d almost swear to ‘never.’ But then I’m the most amazing ass about tools. A fret-saw or a pile-driver, they’re all one to me.”
“Did you notice the handle?” Anthony asked.
“With interest; because they said it had my paw-marks on it.”
“Ever seen that before? By itself, I mean.”
Deacon shook his head. “Never.” He fell silent, then said: “I suppose those prints couldn’t be any one else’s, could they?”
“I’m afraid they couldn’t,” said Anthony. “You see, it’s as near proved as a thing like that can be that no two men have the same markings on the fingers. They compared those on the wood with those on the bit of paper Boyd got you to hold, and their experts don’t make mistakes. By the way, I suppose you realised at the inquest how you’d been caught?”