Deacon smiled. “Not at the inquest, brother, but at the time. I’ve read too many spot-the-murderer serials in my time not to know what a sleuth’s up to when he hands me a bit of paper and asks me whether I ever saw it before. But I didn’t mind at the time, you see, not knowing about that blasted file thing. I say, Gethryn, are we mad? Or is this all a bloody nightmare? I tell you, I didn’t kill the boss, and yet the thing he’s killed with is all over the marks of my fingers! And as far as I know I never even saw the gadget before! It doesn’t work out, does it?”
“It’s got to,” Anthony said. “I’ll damned well make it. Now, what d’you know about the incomparable Vanda?”
Deacon whistled. “How did you get hold of that?” he asked, wonderingly.
“You know my methods, my dear Deacon. But what d’you know about Vanda? Beyond the fact that she’s the most wonderful dancer of all time.”
“I don’t really know anything; but I’ve a shrewd little suspish that she was the boss’s mistress.”
“She was. But as you didn’t actually know anything, I gather you can’t help me further there.”
“ ’Fraid not. For one thing my suspicion was founded on something that happened by accident, and for another I’ve not the foggiest idea of what you’re driving at.”
“They will all say that!” Anthony sighed. “And it’s just what I want some one to tell me. Never mind, we’ll get on with the exhibits. Have you ever seen this?” He took from a swollen hip pocket a small paper package, unfolded it, and handed the contents to Deacon.
They were a coil of filthy, black-smeared silk cord. Curiously, the prisoner shook it out, letting one end fall to the floor. He saw now that it was knotted at regular intervals along its length, which was a full sixteen feet.
“Never saw it in my natural.” He looked up at Anthony. “What is it?”