“If Mr. Parrish was murdered, the murderer might have turned the gun round in Parrish’s hand and forced him to shoot himself ...”
“Hardly,” said Robin. “Remember, Mary Trevert was at the door when the shot was fired. Your theory presupposes the employment of force, in other words, a struggle. Miss Trevert heard no scuffling. No, I’ve thought of that.. it won’t do ...”
“Have you any suspicion of who the murderer might be?”
Robin shook his head decidedly.
“Not a shadow of an idea,” he affirmed positively. “But I have a notion that we shall find a clue in this letter which, like a blithering fool, I left on Parrish’s desk. It’s the first glimmer of hope I’ve seen yet ...”
Bruce Wright squared his shoulders and threw his head back.
“I’ll get it for you,” he said.
“Good boy,” said Robin. “But, Bruce,” he went on, “you’ll have to go carefully. My name is mud in that house. You mustn’t say you come from me. And if you ask boldly for the letter, they won’t give it to you. Jeekes might, if he’s there and you approach him cautiously. But, for Heaven’s sake, don’t try any diplomacy on Manderton ... that’s the Scotland Yard man. He’s as wary as a fox and sharp as needles.”
Bruce Wright buttoned up his coat with an air of finality.
“Leave it to me,” he said, “I know Harkings like my pocket. Besides I’ve got a friend there ...”