Inspector Jamison rapped on the surface of the desk with his knuckles, and in the. heavy silence which followed Pons said, "Professor Mair's sudden and tragic death confronts us with a number of interesting and interrelated problems. Chiefly, those of motive, method, and culprit."
His eyes wandered round the room, probing each of us in turn.
"My friend, Doctor Parker here, inclines to one theory; yet his solution to the locked-door problem was childish and clumsy — if he will forgive me saying so. And yet, like so many seemingly insoluble puzzles, the answer is simplicity itself. Money, of course, was the motive, and I am certain that in the final analysis we shall find embezzlement at the back of it. Money undoubtedly missing from Professor Mair's estate funds, and when he expressed a desire to sell his house and move elsewhere the murderer, afraid of what such a move would involve — solicitors, the overhaul of accounts, and so forth — became alarmed and sought a drastic solution to his dilemma.
"At an hour in the afternoon when he knew that the professor was alone in his study, he sought him out, first making sure that other members of the household were peaceably engaged in their normal pursuits in other parts of the house. Seeking the professor's presence on some banal pretext, he locked the study door behind him to ensure remaining undisturbed. He killed the professor with one blow from a kris he took from the wall over there. He had little time to clean it and there are still traces of blood on its tip."
"Eh?"
Jamison was on his feet with an alarmed expression; he went heavily to the corner of the study indicated by Pons and took down the weapon, sliding it gently from its scabbard.
"You are right, Mr. Pons," he muttered.
"I am well aware of that, Jamison," said Pons smoothly. "I observed as much within a few minutes of entering the room yesterday."
"But the javelin, Pons?" I protested.
My friend smiled broadly; he was evidently enjoying the effect he had created.
"You are an excellent physician, my dear Parker," he said gently. "But like many untrained people your eye sees only the surface aspect. It was obvious to me that the murderer was endeavoring to implicate Mr. Amsden here. He was a natural candidate owing to his sporting proclivities and his athletic build."
Amsden had turned from the mantelpiece now; the sullen look had gone from his face and his lower jaw had dropped.
"The person who killed the professor," Pons went on, "was a far smaller man that Mr. Amsden. After he committed the crime, he replaced the kris in its scabbard. Wearing gloves, of course, he then took the javelin and, putting all his weight upon it, forced it as far as he could into the original wound. You will remember the weapon fell out quite easily when you touched it, Parker."
"I remember, Pons," I said somewhat stiffly.
"I do not blame you, my dear fellow. It was a first-rate piece of theatrical dressing and would have deceived most of us. Though I have no doubt your postmortem will reveal the true state of affairs readily enough, Jamison."
The grim-faced inspector had come back to the desk now and was wrapping kris and scabbard in his voluminous handkerchief. He looked gloomily at my companion.
"Well, Mr. Pons?"
"We are looking for a clever, rather slightly built man with a good knowledge of figures," said Pons. "One who took the opportunity, when ransacking the room for effect, to abstract the one account book which might have implicated him. This is mere guesswork for the moment in the absence of anything stronger, but it is all part of the pattern."
He glanced at Moffat who, with ashen face, had struggled up in his armchair and was staring at Pons and the inspector strangely.
"But the locked door, Mr. Pons?"
Clifford Armitage came toward us, shaking his head.
"I must confess I cannot see how anyone could have got out from this locked room."
Pons shot a quick glance at the secretary, Moffat.
"He never did get out, Mr. Armitage," he said calmly. "He was here all the time."
I looked from Jean Conyers in her seat between the windows to Mr. Bruce Beresford's honest, baffled face. I am sure the blankness in their countenances was fully reflected in my own. Pons went quickly back toward the door.
"The key was turned, the door was locked; let there be no mistake about that.. It wanted but a few minutes of three o'clock. The professor lay dead upon the floor, the room ransacked; the javelin was in place in the ready-made wound. The scene lacked only the masterstroke. The man we are seeking then gave vent to the most bloodcurdling series of screams that he could devise. Something he knew could not fail to bring the household running. He was not mistaken. Within some thirty seconds members of the family and staff, alarmed at the noise, were pounding at the door.
"But before that happened, our man crossed the room rapidly and secreted himself in the left-hand cupboard, one of a pair which flanks the door. There, with great daring, and keeping the cupboard door a fraction ajar so that he could see what went on in the room, he waited with great self-control until the room door was smashed in.
"Then, when he was certain, in the confusion when everyone was clustered in horror round the corpse of Professor Mair, he quietly let himself out of the cupboard, which was, of course, behind the people in the room, and joined the edge of the group as though he had just run in from the corridor."
"Brilliant, Pons!" I could not forbear saying.
"Elementary, my dear Parker," rejoined Pons.
The secretary had found his voice.
"But how could you possibly know this?" he said snappishly.
For the simple reason that I found traces of his presence in the cupboard, Mr. Moffat."
There was an oppressive silence in the room now. Inspector Jamison's eyes were large and inquiring, but he did not presume to interrupt my friend's exposition.
"I found what I was looking for," Pons went on. "A mixture of sand and clay originating from the road excavations outside the house here. One would expect members of the household to bear traces of this because they were bound to cross the end of the drive entrance going to and fro on their lawful occasions. But there was no reason for anyone to be in that cupboard unless he were the murderer. When we find the same mixture of sand and clay on the floor and mat of Mr. Beresford's darkroom, then it is absolutely conclusive."
Jamison shook his head.
"Just a moment, Mr. Pons. Apart from the fact that I have no idea who Mr. Beresford is, what can his darkroom have to do with it?"
"I am coming to that, Inspector," Pons continued with a thin smile. "In the excavation outside the house I found a distinctive shoe print which had an unusual V pattern. I found part of the same imprint on the floor of the cupboard. I have examined the bedrooms here this afternoon and in a necessarily brief search could find no such shoe. And I have observed that no members of the family were wearing such a shoe. But Miss Conyers told me of a strange odor from the bedroom fires. Smoke from shoe leather makes (hat odor. It was so strong, in fact, that the servants had to light perfumed candles to take away the smell. I found small traces of shoe leather in one of the fireplaces here this afternoon, which dispelled any lingering doubt I might have had. With my proximity the murderer was forced to take a chance and burned the shoes, piece by piece, over the past two days."
"But why did he wear such distinctive shoes, Pons?" I said.
"He intended to leave a trail for the police. So that they would think the murderer was someone from outside."
Pons's eyes had a faraway look.
"We are dealing with a rare breed of dangerous animal, Parker. One who took infinite pains to concoct the perfect murder. That was why he had to destroy the shoes."