"No time. It's damp too. Soaking wet, probably."
"Roll it small and stick it in the fork of a tree. Everyone looks on the ground for things."
"Williams, you're a born criminal. Tell Sanger your theory and ask him to make use of it this afternoon. I'd rather have that coat than have Tisdall. In fact, I've got to have that coat!"
"Talking of razors, you don't think maybe, he took his razor with him, sir?"
"I didn't think of it. Shouldn't think he had the presence of mind. But then I didn't think he'd have the nerve to bolt. I concentrated on suicide. Where are his things?"
"Sanger took them over here in the case. Everything he had."
"Just see if his razor is there? It's just as well to know whether he's shaved or not." There was no razor.
"Well!" said Grant. "Who'd have thought it! 'You disappoint me, Inspector, says he, quietly pocketing the razor, and arranging his getaway with the world's prize chump of a detective watching him. I'm all wrong about that lad, Sergeant. All wrong. I thought first, when I took him from the inquest that he was one of these hysterical, do-it-on-the-spur-of-the-moment creatures. Then, after I knew about the will, I changed my mind. Still thought him a 'poor thing, though. And now I find he was planning a getaway under my very nose — and he brought it off! It isn't Tisdall who's a washout, it's me!"
"Cheer up, sir. Our luck is out at the moment. But you and I between us, and no one else, so help me, are going to put that cold-blooded brute where he belongs," Williams said fervently, not knowing that the person who was to be the means of bringing the murderer of Christine Clay to justice was a rather silly little woman in Kansas City who had never heard of any of them.