“Here’s a valuable factor for your equation.” His eyes were fixed banteringly on the man.
Arnesson regarded the note superciliously, and with a wry grimace laid it on the table.
“I trust the clergy are not involved in this problem. They’re notoriously unscientific. One can’t attack them with mathematics. ‘The Bishop’. . . ,” he mused. “I’m unacquainted with any gentlemen of the cloth.—I think I’ll rule out this abracadabra when making my calculations.”
“If you do, Mr. Arnesson,” replied Vance seriously, “your equation, I fear, will fall to pieces. That cryptic epistle strikes me as rather significant. Indeed—if you will pardon a mere lay opinion—I believe it is the most mathematical thing that has appeared thus far in the case. It relieves the situation of all haphazardness or accident. It’s the g, so to speak—the gravitational constant which will govern all our equations.”
Heath had stood looking down on the typewritten paper with solemn disgust.
“Some crank wrote this, Mr. Vance,” he declared.
“Undoubtedly a crank, Sergeant,” agreed Vance. “But don’t overlook the fact that this particular crank must have known many interestin’ and intimate details—to wit, that Mr. Robin’s middle name was Cochrane; that the gentleman had been killed with a bow and arrow; and that Mr. Sperling was in the vicinity at the time of the Robin’s passing. Moreover, this well-informed crank must have had what amounted to foreknowledge regarding the murder; for the note was obviously typed and inserted in the letter-box before you and your men arrived on the scene.”
“Unless,” countered Heath doggedly, “he’s one of those bimboes out in the street, who got wise to what had happened and then stuck this paper in the box when the officer’s back was turned.”
“Having first run home and carefully typewritten his communication—eh, what?” Vance shook his head with a rueful smile. “No, Sergeant, I’m afraid your theory won’t do.”
“Then what in hell does it mean?” Heath demanded truculently.