“Not at all,” answered Drummond. “Since neither Andrews nor his merry men can actually join the party, my job is to keep my eyes skinned in the room itself for anything unusual that may happen.”
“But what could happen?” said Stedman with an amused smile. “It sounds like the thriller of fiction: a secret death-dealing ray or something ridiculous of that sort.”
“It does rather, I admit,” agreed Drummond. “Certainly nothing could appear more removed from anything of that sort than the table at present.”
“And yet,” said Stedman thoughtfully, “it is an amazing thing how science has helped crime, though it sounds rather as if I was contradicting myself.”
“It has helped the detection of crime just as much,” Drummond argued.
“I wonder. I agree with you, of course, over crude commonplace crime, but in those cases the criminal is not availing himself of science, whereas the detective is. The crime I am alluding to belongs to a higher category, and of necessity must be murder.”
“Why, of necessity?”
“Because in burglary or forgery, let us say, however much science is employed in the committing of the crime, the criminal can only obtain his reward by a process where science is of no avail. He must go to a fence: he must pass his dud fivers. And it is in the disposal of his goods, a thing over which the technique is much the same as it was last century, that he gets caught. That does not apply to murder.”
“Perhaps not. But since the time of Cain and Abel there is one thing that has always applied to murder, and no science can alter that.”
“And supposing there is no motive.”
“Then the murderer is a madman,” said Drummond. “Or someone of the Jack the Ripper type.”
“I will amend my remark. Supposing there is no motive that points to any particular individual.”
“I don’t quite get you,” remarked Drummond.
Stedman hitched his chair a little nearer and lowered his voice.
“Let us take an academic case,” he said, “our friend over whom the precautions are being taken tonight. Now the reasons why anyone desires his removal are nothing whatever to do with his private life. There is no question of love, or jealousy, or personal hatred pointing at a specific being, and saying, ‘Thou art the man.’ The reasons are purely public and apply to his political views, which are intensely unpopular amongst thousands of people. That is why I say that if the Comte was murdered tonight, though the motive would be obvious, it wouldn’t help the police to find the murderer.”
“That is true,” agreed Drummond. “And provided the crime was committed with such skill, that the criminal made a clear getaway and left no obvious clues behind him, doubtless he would never be discovered.”
“Which is what I was getting at in the first place,” said Stedman. “Fifty years ago, with the precautions that have been taken tonight a getaway would have been impossible, because the methods of committing the crime were so crude. Short of a gang of men overpowering the police and shooting him, or someone poisoning his whiskey, there was no method of doing the deed. Today that is not the case. And that is where science has helped the criminal more than the detective.”
“I wonder if the Yard would agree with you,” remarked Drummond with a smile.
“Somewhat improbable,” grinned Stedman. “Though it doesn’t alter the fact that it’s the truth. I am firmly convinced that given time, brains and a sufficiency of money it would be a comparatively simple matter to commit an undiscoverable murder.”
“A good many people have thought the same thing and found they were wrong,” said Drummond as they all rose from the table.
“And quite as many have found they were right,” replied Stedman as they moved into the hall. “However let’s hope there’s no question of its being put to the test tonight. I’ve promised to finish two more soldiers for Billy, and high art of that sort requires a steady hand.”
Certainly there had been no question of it when the house party reassembled about midnight prior to going to bed. The three statesmen had disappeared with their host into secret conclave; Stedman, refusing to join the others at drink, had devoted himself to things military in a corner of the billiard room. And now, as everyone helped himself to his own particular night cap, he pointed with pardonable pride to the result of his labors.
Ranged in single file on a tray were the twelve gallant infantrymen and the field marshal on his prancing black horse. The command was small, Stedman admitted, for such an exalted officer, but any attempt to reduce him in rank had been firmly vetoed by Billy. And his actual position on parade was hardly according to the drill book. Instead of leading his army into action the cowardly old gentleman very nearly brought up the rear. Behind him strode a Greenjacket, a stouthearted warrior leading an Army mule, and the sanitary squad in the shape of an R.A.M.C. orderly. The remainder of the force led by the drum major stretched out in front, glistening in their scarlet tunics.
“Don’t touch,” warned Stedman. “They’re still wet.”
“I don’t envy the Highlander,” laughed his Lordship. “It seems to me that the off fore of the Field Marshal’s charger is down his neck.”
“Specially arranged by Billy, sir,” said Stedman. “The Highlander is the Field Marshal’s own private guard.”
He put the tray on the window sill, and glanced at Drummond.
“We compromised on the Black Watch,” he laughed. “So honor is satisfied. Hullo! What has stung the Comte?”
He was gesticulating freely by the fireplace, and Lord Surrey was soothing him down.
“But, my dear fellow,” cried the Frenchman, “it is absurd. I appreciate greatly your care for my safety, and the precautions of the good Inspector. But to change my bedroom, because some madman has written a crazy note — it is surely ridiculous. You will be asking that I look under the bed next, like a hopeful old lady. However — if you insist I can only obey my so charming host. I will go, I think, now, if I may.”
“What’s all the excitement?” whispered Stedman to Drummond.
“One of Inspector Andrews’ precautions,” answered Drummond. “Even the servants don’t know. The Comte’s bedroom has been changed, and Andrews himself is occupying the one he had originally. What on earth is the matter?” he added with a laugh. “You seem quite distressed about it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Stedman. “Why should it distress me? Though I’m inclined to agree with the Comte as to its being most unnecessary.”
“Perhaps. Still it’s as well to be on the safe side.”
He turned away: why had Stedman registered any reaction at all on hearing the news? It had only been momentary — gone in a flash: but to a shrewd observer like Drummond it had stuck out a yard. And how could it possibly affect Stedman personally if the Comte slept in his own bedroom or the coal hole, unless...
He sipped his drink thoughtfully, the conversation at dinner came back to him. Also Stedman’s annoyance over the matter of the kilt. Could it be possible that they were two widely different manifestations of the same failing — conceit? The kilt — irritability because he had been proved wrong; the other, a sort of inverted pride in something planned, and which he could not resist bragging about even though his audience should be unaware of the fact.
“ ’Old ’ard,” muttered Drummond to himself. “You ain’t even trotting: you’re galloping. You’re accusing this bloke Stedman of being the thorn in the flesh. And that’s rot.”
“Then why,” came the reiterated question, “should he care the snap of a finger which is old Dinard’s bedroom? And he did. Of that there’s not a shadow of doubt.”
He turned round to find Algy at his elbow.