Chapter X

The Tumbler and the Dart

i

“We may as well let him have this room,” said Alleyn, when Abel had gone. “Harper’s done everything possible in the way of routine.”

“He’s a very thorough chap, is Nick Harper.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn. “Except in the matter of the rat-hole jar. However, Fox, we’ll see if we can catch him out before we let the public in. Let’s prowl a bit.”

They prowled for an hour. They kept the door locked and closed the bar shutters. Dim sounds of toping penetrated from the public tap-room. Alleyn had brought Harper’s photographs and they compared these with the many chalk marks Harper had left behind him. A chalk mark under the settle showed where the iodine bottle had rolled. The plot of the bottle of Scheele’s acid was marked in the top cupboard. The shelves of the corner cupboard were very dusty, and the trace left by the bottle showed clearly. Alleyn turned to the fireplace.

“He hasn’t shifted the ashes, Br’er Fox. We may as well do that, I think.”

Fox fetched a small sieve from Alleyn’s case. The ashes at first yielded nothing of interest but in the last handful they found a small misshapen object which Alleyn dusted and took to the light.

“Glass,” he said. “They must have had a good fire. It’s melted and gone all bobbly. There’s some more. Broken glass, half-melted by the fire.”

“They probably make the fire up on the old ashes,” said Fox. “It may have lain there through two or three fires.”

“Yes, Fox. And then again, it may not. I wonder if those fragments of the brandy glass were complete. This has been a thickish piece, I should say.”

“A bit of the bottom?”

“We’ll have to find out. You never know. Where was the broken glass?”

The place where most of the broken glass had been found was marked on the floor.

“Oh careful Mr. Harper!” Alleyn sighed. “But it doesn’t get us much farther, I’m afraid. Fox, I’m like to get in a muddle over this. You must keep me straight. You know what an ass I can make of myself. No,” as Fox looked amiably sceptical. “No, I mean it. There are at least three likely pitfalls. I wish to heaven they hadn’t knocked over that glass and tramped it to smithereens.”

“D’you think there was cyanide in the glass, Mr. Alleyn?”

“God bless us, Fox, I don’t know. I don’t know, my dear old article. How can I? But it would help a lot if we could know one way or the other. Finding none on those tiny pieces isn’t good enough.”

“At least,” said Fox, “we know there was cyanide on the dart. And knowing that, sir, and ruling out accident, I must say I agree with old Pomeroy. It looks like Legge.”

“But how the devil could Legge put prussic acid on the dart with eight people all watching him? He was standing under the light, too.”

“He felt the points,” said Fox, without conviction.

“Get along with you, Foxkins. Prussic acid is extremely volatile. Could Legge dip his fingers in the acid and then wait a couple of hours or so — with every hope of giving himself a poisoned hand? He’d have needed a bottle of the stuff about him.”

“He may have had one. He may be a bit of a conjurer. Legerdemain,” added Fox.

“Well — he may. We’ll have to find out.”

Alleyn lit a cigarette and sat down.

“Let’s worry it out,” he said. “May I talk? And when I go wrong, Fox, you stop me.”

“It’s likely then,” said Fox, drily, “to be a monologue. But go ahead, sir, if you please.”

Alleyn went ahead. His pleasant voice ran on and on and a kind of orderliness began to appear. The impossible, the possible, and the probable were sorted into groups, and from the kaleidoscopic jumble of evidence was formed a pattern.

“Imperfect,” said Alleyn, “but at least suggestive.”

“Suggestive, all right,” Fox said. “And if it’s correct, the case, in a funny sort of way, still hinges on the dart.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn. “The bare bodkin. The feathered quarrel and all that. Well, Fox, we’ve wallowed in speculation and now we’d better get on with the job. I think I hear Pomeroy senior in the public bar, so presumably Pomeroy junior is at liberty. Let’s remove to the parlour.”

“Shall I get hold of young Pomeroy?”

“In a minute. Ask him to bring us a couple of pints. You’d better not suggest that he join us in a drink. He doesn’t like us much, and I imagine he’d refuse, which would not be the best possible beginning.”

Alleyn wandered into the inglenook, knocked out his pipe on the hearthstone, and then stooped down.

“Look here, Fox.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Look at this log-box.”

Fox bent himself at the waist and stared into a heavy wooden box in which Abel kept his pieces of driftwood and the newspaper used for kindling. Alleyn pulled out a piece of paper and took it to the light

“It’s been wet,” observed Fox.

“Very wet. Soaked. It was thrust down among the bits of wood. A little pool had lain in the pocket. Smell it.”

Fox sniffed, vigorously.

“Brandy?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Handle it carefully, Br’er Fox. Put it away in your room and then get Pomeroy junior.”

Alleyn returned to the parlour, turned on the red-shaded lamp and settled himself behind the table.

Fox came in, followed by Will Pomeroy. Will carried two pint pots of beer. He set them down on the table.

“Thank you,” said Alleyn. “Can you spare us a moment?”

“Yes.”

“Sit down, won’t you?”

Will hesitated awkwardly, and then chose the least comfortable chair and sat on the extreme edge. Fox took out his note-book and Will’s eyes flickered. Alleyn laid three keys on the table.

“We may return these now, I think,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to see the Plume of Feathers set right again.”

“Thanks,” said Will. He stretched out his hand and took the keys.

“The point we’d like to talk about,” said Alleyn, “is the possibility of the dart that injured Mr. Watchman being tainted with the stuff used for rat-poison — the acid was kept in the corner cupboard of the private tap. Now, your father—”

“I know what my father’s been telling you,” interrupted Will, “and I don’t hold with it. My father’s got a damn’ crazy notion in his head.”

“What notion is that?” asked Alleyn.

Will looked sharply at him, using that trick of lowering his eyelashes. He did not answer.

“Do you mean that your father’s ideas about Mr. Robert Legge are crazy?”

“That’s right. Father’s got his knife into Bob Legge because of his views. There’s no justice nor sense in what he says. I’ll swear, Bible oath, Bob Legge never interfered with the dart. I’ll swear it before any judge or jury in the country.”

“How can you be so positive?”

“I was watching the man. I was in the corner between the dart board and the bar. I was watching him.”

“All the time? From the moment the darts were unpacked until he threw them?”

“Yes,” said Will, doggedly. “All the time.”

“Why?”

“Eh?”

“Why did you watch him so closely?”

“Because of what the man was going to do. We all watched him.”

“Suppose,” said Alleyn, “that for the sake of argument I told you we knew positively that Mr. Legge, while he held the darts in his left hand, put his right hand in his pocket for a moment—”

“I’d say it was a lie. He didn’t. He never put his hand in his pocket.”

“What makes you so positive, Mr. Pomeroy?”

“For one thing he was in his shirt-sleeves.”

“What about his waistcoat and trousers pockets?”

“He hadn’t a waistcoat. His sleeves was rolled up and I was watching his hands. They never went near his trousers’ pockets. He held the darts in his left hand, and I was watching the way he felt the points, delicate-like, with the first finger of his other hand. He was saying they was right-down good darts, well made and well balanced.” Will leant forward and scowled earnestly at Alleyn.