He broke off short and looked at the detective.
Mr. Manderton caressed his big black moustache.
“Yes,” he repeated suavely, “you were saying ‘to cast suspicion’ ...”
The eyes of the two men met. Then the detective leaned back in his chair and, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips, said:
“Mr. Greve, you’ve been thinking ahead of me on this case. What you’ve told me so far I’ve checked. And you’re right. Dead right. And since you’re, in a manner of speaking, one of the parties interested in getting things cleared up, I’d like you to tell me just simply what idea you’ve formed about it ...”
“Gladly,” answered the barrister. “And to start with let me tell you that the case stinks of blackmail ...”
“Steady on,” interposed the detective. “I thought so, too, at first. I’ve been into all that. Mr. Parrish made a clean break with the last of his lady friends about two months since; and, as far as our investigations go, there has been no blackmail in connection with any of his women pals. Vine Street knows all about Master Parrish. There were complaints about some of his little parties up in town. But I don’t believe there’s a woman in this case ...”
“I didn’t say there was,” retorted Robin. “The blackmail is probably being levied from Holland. A threat of violence was finally carried into effect on Saturday evening between 5 and 5.15 P.M. by some one conversant with the lie of the land at Harkings. This individual, armed with an automatic Browning of the same calibre as Mr. Parrish’s, shot at Parrish through the open window of the library and killed him—probably in self-defence, after Parrish had had a shot at him ...”
“Steady there, whoa!” said Mr. Manderton in a jocular way clearly expressive of his incredulity; “there was only one shot ...”
“There were two,” was Robin’s dispassionate reply. “Though maybe only one was heard. Parrish had a Maxim silencer on his gun ...”