you cool off, or you'll very likely burst a blood-vessel.'
'Why Job?' demanded the Inspector suspiciously.
'If you read your Bible you'd know that the poor chap suffered from a horrible disease. Amongst other things, which I've forgotten for the moment.'
'Now, look here!' exploded Harbottle. 'What am I supposed to be suffering from, I'd like to know?'
'Me, mostly,' replied Hemingway serenely.
A reluctant grin greeted this sally. 'Well you're the boss, so it 71 won't do for me to contradict you, sir. But what you see in this case to be pleased about I can't make out! Seems to me it's either going to be easy that this local Sergeant you think so well of might just as well have solved it for himself; or it's going to be such a snorter that we shall never get to the bottom of it.'
'It's got class,' said Hemingway, selecting a radish from the dish. 'It's got a good decor, too, and, barring the Pole, I like the sound of the dramatis personae. It isn't every day you get a murder amongst a lot of nice, respectable people living in a country village. Of course, I daresay Snettisham will dig up some character with a record as long as your arm, here in Bellingham, who'll turn out to be the guilty party, but so far it looks a lot more promising than that. It's got what you might call possibilities.'
The Inspector frowned over these. 'The Pole -- which you wouldn't like! -- and the niece, which the Chief Constable laughed at. I didn't reckon much to any of the others. Except that I'd like to know why the Chief Constable shut up so tight when Carsethorn started on the solicitor -- Drybeck!'
'Because Drybeck's his own solicitor, and he plays golf with him every weekend,' replied Hemingway promptly.
'Did Carsethorn tell you that, sir?'
'No, he didn't have to. It's standing out a mile the Chief Constable's on friendly terms with most of the people mixed up in the case. That's why he was so prompt in calling us in, and I'm sure I don't blame him.'
Harbottle shook his head over this evidence of the frailty of human nature, but he appeared to accept it, and relapsed once more into meditative silence. The frown deepened between his brows; he presently said abruptly: 'There's one thing that strikes me about this case, Chief!'
'What's that?' asked Hemingway, not looking up from his study of the plan of Thornden.
'Well, it seems to be fairly well established that the shot was fired from close to that clump of gorse. How did the murderer know that the deceased was going to be so obliging as to sit down on that seat in his garden at just that time of day?'
'He didn't, replied Hemingway. 'He probably didn't even know he was going to have the luck to find Warrenby in the garden at all. You think it over, Horace! If the murder was committed by one of the people at that tennis-party, he knew Miss Warrenby wasn't in the house, and it's a safe bet he also knew it was the maid's day out. He may have thought Warrenby was likely to be in the garden on a hot June evening, but it wouldn't have mattered if he hadn't been. You've seen the house: it came out good and clear in one of the photographs. It's got long french windows, which would be bound to be standing open on a day like that. As for the time, that didn't matter either. If the Pole did it, obviously he couldn't have, because he must have had to lie up, waiting for Warrenby to show himself, for nearly a couple of hours. Which is one reason why I don't, so far, much fancy young Ladislas.'
'The more I think of it, the more I can't help feeling it must have been someone who wasn't at that party at all,' said Harbottle. 'If it was one of them, where was the rifle? If it had been a cricket-match, we could assume it had been all the time in the murderer's cricket-bag; but what would anyone take to a tennis-party which could possibly hold a rifle?'
'Nothing, of course. That's quite a good point, Horace, but there's an easy answer to it. If the murderer was at that party, he knew
'Why Job?' demanded the Inspector suspiciously.
'If you read your Bible you'd know that the poor chap suffered from a horrible disease. Amongst other things, which I've forgotten for the moment.'
'Now, look here!' exploded Harbottle. 'What am I supposed to be suffering from, I'd like to know?'
'Me, mostly,' replied Hemingway serenely.
A reluctant grin greeted this sally. 'Well you're the boss, so it 71 won't do for me to contradict you, sir. But what you see in this case to be pleased about I can't make out! Seems to me it's either going to be easy that this local Sergeant you think so well of might just as well have solved it for himself; or it's going to be such a snorter that we shall never get to the bottom of it.'
'It's got class,' said Hemingway, selecting a radish from the dish. 'It's got a good decor, too, and, barring the Pole, I like the sound of the dramatis personae. It isn't every day you get a murder amongst a lot of nice, respectable people living in a country village. Of course, I daresay Snettisham will dig up some character with a record as long as your arm, here in Bellingham, who'll turn out to be the guilty party, but so far it looks a lot more promising than that. It's got what you might call possibilities.'
The Inspector frowned over these. 'The Pole -- which you wouldn't like! -- and the niece, which the Chief Constable laughed at. I didn't reckon much to any of the others. Except that I'd like to know why the Chief Constable shut up so tight when Carsethorn started on the solicitor -- Drybeck!'
'Because Drybeck's his own solicitor, and he plays golf with him every weekend,' replied Hemingway promptly.
'Did Carsethorn tell you that, sir?'
'No, he didn't have to. It's standing out a mile the Chief Constable's on friendly terms with most of the people mixed up in the case. That's why he was so prompt in calling us in, and I'm sure I don't blame him.'
Harbottle shook his head over this evidence of the frailty of human nature, but he appeared to accept it, and relapsed once more into meditative silence. The frown deepened between his brows; he presently said abruptly: 'There's one thing that strikes me about this case, Chief!'
'What's that?' asked Hemingway, not looking up from his study of the plan of Thornden.
'Well, it seems to be fairly well established that the shot was fired from close to that clump of gorse. How did the murderer know that the deceased was going to be so obliging as to sit down on that seat in his garden at just that time of day?'
'He didn't, replied Hemingway. 'He probably didn't even know he was going to have the luck to find Warrenby in the garden at all. You think it over, Horace! If the murder was committed by one of the people at that tennis-party, he knew Miss Warrenby wasn't in the house, and it's a safe bet he also knew it was the maid's day out. He may have thought Warrenby was likely to be in the garden on a hot June evening, but it wouldn't have mattered if he hadn't been. You've seen the house: it came out good and clear in one of the photographs. It's got long french windows, which would be bound to be standing open on a day like that. As for the time, that didn't matter either. If the Pole did it, obviously he couldn't have, because he must have had to lie up, waiting for Warrenby to show himself, for nearly a couple of hours. Which is one reason why I don't, so far, much fancy young Ladislas.'
'The more I think of it, the more I can't help feeling it must have been someone who wasn't at that party at all,' said Harbottle. 'If it was one of them, where was the rifle? If it had been a cricket-match, we could assume it had been all the time in the murderer's cricket-bag; but what would anyone take to a tennis-party which could possibly hold a rifle?'
'Nothing, of course. That's quite a good point, Horace, but there's an easy answer to it. If the murderer was at that party, he knew
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