There was a moment’s silence. Desmond was thinking despairingly of the seeming hopelessness of untangling this intricate webwork of tangled threads.
“And this murder, sir,” he began.
The Chief shrugged his shoulders.
“The motive, Okewood, I am searching for the motive. I can see none except the highly improbable one of Miss Mackwayte being my confidential secretary. In that case why murder the father, a harmless old man who didn’t even know that his daughter is in my service, why kill him, I ask you, and spare the girl? On the other hand, I believe the man Barney’s story, and can see that Marigold does, too. When I first heard the news of the murder over the telephone this morning, I had a kind of intuition that we should discover in it a thread leading back to this mesh of espionage. Is it merely a coincidence that a hair, resembling Nur-el-Din’s, is found adhering to the straps with which Barbara Mackwayte was bound? I can’t think so... and yet...”
“But do you believe then, that Nur-el-Din murdered-old Mackwayte? My dear Chief, the idea is preposterous...”
The Chief rose from his chair with a sigh.
“Nothing is preposterous in our work, Okewood,” he replied. “But it’s 3.25, and my French colleague hates to be kept waiting.”
“I thought you were seeing Strangwise, at two?” asked Desmond.
“I put him off until six o’clock,” replied the Chief, “he knows Nur-el-Din, and he may be able to give Marigold some pointers about this affair. You’re off to see Miss Mackwayte now, I suppose. You know where she’s staying? Good. Well, I’ll say good-bye, Okewood. I shan’t see you again...”
“You won’t see me again? How do you mean, sir?”