“Something of the sort. Never mind, though. On with the tale, my Boyd.”
“No, Poole’s not my man. By all accounts he was devoted to his master. That’s one thing. Another is that his right arm’s practically useless with rheumatism and that he’s infirm—with an absolute minimum of physical strength, so to speak. That proves he’s not the man, even if other things were against him, which they’re not. You’ll know why when I take you into that room there, sir.” The detective nodded his head in the direction of the study door.
“Well,” he continued, “taking Poole, for the present at any rate, as a reliable witness, we know that the murderer didn’t enter by the door. The chimney’s impossible because it’s too small and the register’s down; so he must have got in through the window.”
“Which of how many?” Anthony asked, still in that sleepy tone.
“The one farthest from the door and facing the garden, sir. The room’s got windows on all three sides—three on the garden side, one in the end wall, and two facing the drive; but only one of ’em—the one I said—was open.”
Anthony opened his eyes. “But how sultry!” he complained.
“I know, sir. That’s what I thought. And in this hot weather and all. But there’s an explanation. The deceased always had them—those windows—shut all day in the hot weather, and the blinds down. He knew a thing or two, you see. But he always used to open ’em himself at night, when he went in there to work. I suppose last night he must ’ave been in a great hurry or something, and only opened one of ’em.” He looked across at Anthony for approval of his reasoning, then continued: “But the queer thing is, sir, that that open window shows no traces of anything—no scratches, no marks, no nothing. Nor does the flower-bed under it either.”
“Any finger-prints anywhere on anything?” said Anthony.
“None anywhere in the room but the deceased’s—except on one thing. I’ve sent that up to the Yard—Jardine’s taken it—for the experts to photograph. I’ll have the prints sometime this afternoon I should think.” Boyd’s tone was mysterious.
Anthony looked at him. “Out with it, Boyd. You’re like a boy with a surprise for daddy.”