“Not the six years I’ve been coming here.”

“Well, you went down and told Rush Mr. Craddock was dead, and the pair of you came up together. It wouldn’t be less than two minutes you were away, I take it, and it might be as much as three. And the flat door standing open all the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, someone got in and smudged those footprints-that’s clear enough. And when you got upstairs you saw Mr. Renshaw coming out of number nine, and Miss Bingham half way down the stairs?”

Peterson said “Yes” again.

In answer to questions about the revolver, he said it was Mr. Craddock’s own revolver. Mr. Craddock kept it in the second draw of his writing-table-“That one on the left, sir.” No, the drawer wasn’t kept locked-never had been so far as he knew. Mr. Craddock told him once that the revolver was loaded. That would be about six months ago. He couldn’t say why Mr. Craddock had mentioned it. Asked whether he had ever handled the weapon, he replied, “Oh, no, sir-certainly not, sir.”

“Did you see anyone else handle it this morning?”

Peterson coughed.

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“If it’s for coughing, you needn’t-if it’s for not answering what I’ve just asked you, it’s no good. Did you see anyone handle that revolver?”

Peterson cleared his throat and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Out with it, man!”

“It was Mr. Renshaw, sir. He came in as it were right behind us-behind Mr. Rush and me-”

“Yes-go on.”

“Well, sir, we looked at Mr. Craddock, and he was dead all right. And Mr. Renshaw he says, ‘Good God!’ and goes down on his knees and takes hold of his wrist. And Mr. Rush says, ‘He’s gone! Look at the hole in his head!’ And then he says to me to look lively and ring up for the police, so I went over to the table and took up the receiver off the telephone. And then I saw Mr. Renshaw had got up. He went across to where the revolver was and he picked it up. And Mr. Rush said very sharp, ‘You put that down, Mr. Peter! There’s nothing must be touched.’ Mr. Renshaw he had the revolver by the handle.”

The Inspector frowned.

“I suppose you mean the butt?”

“Well, you know best, sir. He had it in his right hand the way you’d hold it if you were going to fire-at least, that’s the way it looked to me. And when Mr. Rush said that, he said, Mr. Renshaw did, ‘Quite true, Rush,’ and he shifted the pistol into his left hand, taking hold of it by the other end, and he dropped it back on the floor as near as could be where it was before. And Mr. Rush spoke to him very sharp indeed and told him he’d be getting us all into trouble.”

The Inspector frowned more deeply still.

“I want to get this quite clear. You say Mr. Renshaw took hold of the revolver first by the butt and then by the barrel?”

“He took hold first one end and then the other.”

That concluded the examination of Peterson, and he was allowed to depart.

“Now what did he do that for?” said the Inspector. “A gentleman like Mr. Renshaw-army officer, isn’t he?-he knows as well as you and I do that he oughtn’t to have touched that revolver. Now, if it had been Peterson that doesn’t know the muzzle from the butt-him and his handles!”-here the Inspector snorted-“you’d say he’d lost his head-and not a lot of it to lose either! But Mr. Renshaw, he knows as well as you and me that that weapon would have to be examined for fingerprints, and when he goes plastering his hands all over it-well, Abbott, what do you make of it?”

Detective Abbott spoke in his pleasant public school voice.

“It looks as if he wanted to make sure that there wouldn’t be any fingerprints except those Rush and Peterson had seen him make after Craddock was dead.”

The Inspector nodded.

“Meaning he knew something about the fingerprints that were there, and meant to cover them up-his own likely enough. A bold, impudent trick that, and no mistake.”

Young Abbott shook his head.

“I shouldn’t think they’d be his own. If he’d shot the man he’d have wiped the revolver and left it in Craddock’s hand. He’s too cool a card to have left the place shouting murder when there was quite a decent chance of staging a suicide.”

“Bright ideas you have-don’t you, Abbott? Makes me wonder where you get ‘ em from. What do you know about Mr. Renshaw that makes you say he’s a cool card? Ever come across him before?”

Young Abbott’s face did not change at all. He said,

“Yes, sir. I was wondering whether I’d better tell you.”

“Well, you’d better tell me now.”

“Well, sir, we were at school together for a bit. He’s older of course. I-well as a matter of fact, I fagged for him.”

“And you say he’s a cool card?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, remember you’re not fagging for him now. Lord-it’s hot!” He wiped his brow. “Better have the porter next,” he said, and settled back into his chair.

The curtains had been drawn, and the sun shone bright outside. Rush came stumping into the room, his face very red and his back very stiff. He refused to sit down, and delivered all his answers to a point about a foot over the Inspector’s head. His name was Albert Edward Rush, his age was sixty-five years, and he had been porter at Craddock House for thirty of them, leaving out the four years he was away at the war.

The Inspector sat up and took notice.

“Served in the war, did you?”

“August nineteen-fourteen to December nineteen-eighteen.”

Rush had no sirs up his sleeve for policemen. His war record was dragged from him a word or two at a time. Royal Fusiliers. Three times wounded. Finished up a sergeant. Glad enough to be back at his job. Yes, of course he knew how to fire a revolver. “What d’you take me for-a blinking fool?”

Inspector Lamb laughed.

“No, sergeant. Well now-did you know Mr. Craddock had a revolver?”

Rush wasn’t so ready with his answer this time.

“If I did, what about it?”

“Did you? That’s the question.”

Rush glared.

“And I say, what if I did?”

The Inspector spoke him fair.

“Come, come-there’s no need to take it like that. Did you know he had a revolver?”

Rush was not placated.

“I suppose I did,” he said in his surliest voice.

“Did you know where he kept it?”

Rush let out his breath with a snort.

“What are you a-hinting at? Everyone knew where he kep’ it. He’d leave the drawer open-anyone could see what was inside.”

“Did you ever handle it?”

Rush’s eyes were hot and angry. His voice rasped.

“What’d I handle it for? Had enough of the mucky things in the war without wanting to handle one of them now! What are you getting at?”

Detective Abbott’s colourless eyebrows rose a little, but the Inspector refused to take offence.

“Well, well, you didn’t handle it. But you saw Mr. Renshaw handle it, didn’t you?”

“Who says I did?”

“That doesn’t matter, sergeant. The question is, what do you say about it?”

Rush stood there stiff and scowling. He snapped out,

“He picked it up. I told him he hadn’t oughter.”

“How did he pick it up?”

“Butt end first, and when I told him off he caught hold of the muzzle and dropped it down where it come from.”

“Get that down, Abbott,” said the Inspector. “Now that revolver was fired some time last night-some time between one and four in the morning as near as the medical evidence can put it. I want to know if you heard anything that might have been the shot.”

“No, I didn’t-nobody couldn’t down in that basement.”

“And you didn’t leave the basement?”

“Not before a quarter to six I didn’t. I work I do, and when I go to bed I go to sleep.”

“So do I,” said the Inspector heartily. “Now I want to know about the outer door of this place.”

“Anything wrong with that?”

“No, no. But you lock it up at night, I suppose?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What time do you lock up?”

“Eleven o’clock.”