“… concludes the program of Christmas carols,” said the radio.
“A very nice tone,” said Fox approvingly.
“Here’s something sir,” announced Bailey suddenly.
“Found the sawdust, have you?” said Alleyn.
“Got it in one,” said the startled Bailey.
Alleyn peered into the instrument, using the torch. He scooped up two tiny traces of sawdust from under the holes.
“Vantage number one,” said Alleyn. He bent down to the wall plug. “Hullo! A two-way adapter. Serves the radio and the radiator. Thought they were illegal. This is a rum business. Let’s have another look at those knobs.”
He had his look. They were the usual wireless fitments, bakelite knobs fitting snugly to the steel shafts that projected from the front panel.
“As you say,” he murmured, “quite in order. Wait a bit.” He produced a pocket lens and squinted at one of the shafts. “Ye-es. Do they ever wrap blotting-paper round these objects, Fox?”
“Blotting-paper!” ejaculated Fox. “They do not.”
Alleyn scraped at both the shafts with his penknife, holding an envelope underneath. He rose, groaning, and crossed to the desk. “A corner torn off the bottom bit of blotch,” he said presently. “No prints on the wireless, I think you said, Bailey?”
“That’s right,” agreed Bailey morosely.
“There’ll be none, or too many, on the blotter, but try, Bailey, try,” said Alleyn. He wandered about the room, his eyes on the floor; got as far as the window and stopped.
“Fox!” he said. “A clue. A very palpable clue.”
“What is it?” asked Fox.
“The odd wisp of blotting-paper, no less.” Alleyn’s gaze traveled up the side of the window curtain. “Can I believe my eyes?”
He got a chair, stood on the seat, and with his gloved hand pulled the buttons from the ends of the curtain rod.
“Look at this.” He turned to the radio, detached the control knobs, and laid them beside the ones he had removed from the curtain rod.
Ten minutes later Inspector Fox knocked on the drawing-room door and was admitted by Guy Tonks. Phillipa had got the fire going and the family was gathered round it. They looked as though they had not moved or spoken to one another for a long time.
It was Phillipa who spoke first to Fox. “Do you want one of us?” she asked.
“If you please, miss,” said Fox. “Inspector Alleyn would like to see Mr. Guy Tonks for a moment, if convenient.”
“I’ll come,” said Guy, and led the way to the study. At the door he paused. “Is he—my father—still—?”
“No, no, sir,” said Fox comfortably. “It’s all ship-shape in there again.”
With a lift of his chin Guy opened the door and went in, followed by Fox. Alleyn was alone, seated at the desk. He rose to his feet.
“You want to speak to me?” asked Guy.
“Yes, if I may. This has all been a great shock to you, of course. Won’t you sit down?”
Guy sat in the chair farthest away from the radio.
“What killed my father? Was it a stroke?”
“The doctors are not quite certain. There will have to be a post-mortem. ”
“Good God! And an inquest?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Horrible!” said Guy violently. “What do they think was the matter? Why the devil do these quacks have to be so mysterious? What killed him?”
“They think an electric shock.”
“How did it happen?”
“We don’t know. It looks as if he got it from the wireless.”
“Surely that’s impossible. I thought they were foolproof.”
“I believe they are, if left to themselves.”
For a second undoubtedly Guy was startled. Then a look of relief came into his eyes. He seemed to relax all over.
“Of course,” he said, “he was always monkeying about with it. What had he done?”
“Nothing.”
“But you said—if it killed him he must have done something to it.”
“If anyone interfered with the set it was put right afterwards.”
Guy’s lips parted but he did not speak. He had gone very white.
“So you see,” said Alleyn, “your father could not have done anything.”
“Then it was not the radio that killed him.”
“That we hope will be determined by the post-mortem. ”
“I don’t know anything about wireless,” said Guy suddenly. “I don’t understand. This doesn’t seem to make sense. Nobody ever touched the thing except my father. He was most particular about it. Nobody went near the wireless.”
“I see. He was an enthusiast?”
“Yes, it was his only enthusiasm except—except his business.”
“One of my men is a bit of an expert,” Alleyn said. “He says this is a remarkably good set. You are not an expert, you say. Is there anyone in the house who is?”
“My young brother was interested at one time. He’s given it up. My father wouldn’t allow another radio in the house.”
“Perhaps he may be able to suggest something.”
“But if the thing’s all right now—”
“We’ve got to explore every possibility.”
“You speak as if—as—if—”
“I speak as I am bound to speak before there has been an inquest,” said Alleyn. “Had anyone a grudge against your father, Mr. Tonks?”
Up went Guy’s chin again. He looked Alleyn squarely in the eyes.
“Almost everyone who knew him,” said Guy.
“Is that an exaggeration?”
“No. You think he was murdered, don’t you?”
Alleyn suddenly pointed to the desk beside him.
“Have you ever seen those before?” he asked abruptly. Guy stared at two black knobs that lay side by side on an ashtray.
“Those?” he said. “No. What are they?”
“I believe they are the agents of your father’s death.”
The study door opened and Arthur Tonks came in.
“Guy,” he said, “what’s happening? We can’t stay cooped up together all day. I can’t stand it. For God’s sake, what happened to him?”
“They think those things killed him,” said Guy.
“Those?” For a split second Arthur’s glance slewed to the curtain rods. Then, with a characteristic flicker of his eyelids, he looked away again.
“What do you mean?” he asked Alleyn.
“Will you try one of those knobs on the shaft of the volume control?”
“But,” said Arthur, “they’re metal.”
“It’s disconnected,” said Alleyn.
Arthur picked one of the knobs from the tray, turned to the radio, and fitted the knob over one of the exposed shafts.
“It’s too loose,” he said quickly, “it would fall off.”
“Not if it was packed—with blotting-paper, for instance.”
“Where did you find these things?” demanded Arthur.
“I think you recognized them, didn’t you? I saw you glance at the curtain rod.”
“Of course I recognized them. I did a portrait of Phillipa against those curtains when—he—was away last year. I’ve painted the damn things.”
“Look here,” interrupted Guy, “exactly what are you driving at, Mr. Alleyn? If you mean to suggest that my brother—”
“I!” cried Arthur. “What’s it got to do with me? Why should you suppose—”
“I found traces of blotting-paper on the shafts and inside the metal knobs,” said Alleyn. “It suggested a substitution of the metal knobs for the bakelite ones. It is remarkable, don’t you think, that they should so closely resemble one another? If you examine them, of course, you find they are not identical. Still, the difference is scarcely perceptible.”
Arthur did not answer this. He was still looking at the wireless.