there, he had no reason to fear exposing himself by a unique reluctance, for reluctance and distaste were on all faces except that of Tecumseh Fox. He nodded at Damon:
“Good here. That’s sensible. Though probably futile.”
“It is an indignity,” Felix Beck growled.
Hebe said, “It’s horribly revolting.”
The door opened, and eyes went to it. A man entered and spoke across the room to Damon: “Craig wants you, Inspector,” and Damon nodded and tramped out. Everybody decided all at once that their muscles were cramped and shifted to new positions intheir chairs or on their feet. Low-voiced mutterings started. Adolph Koch asked Fox if they could be legally compelled to submit to a search, and Fox said no, and Ted Gill said they might as well submit anyway. Beck folded his arms and paced up and down, and a policeman yawned. Schaeffer, who had served the bar, expounded something lengthily to his colleague in an undertone. Tecumseh Fox leaned far backwards and stared at the ceiling, and was still in that position five minutes later when the door opened again and the inspector entered. He walked across to the end of the big table, which was about the geographical center of the assemblage, and held up an object in his hand for all to see.
“Do any of you recognize this?”
“Certainly.” Henry Pomfret spoke up. “It’s my Ju Chou incense bowl. Please don’t drop it!”
“I won’t.” Damon’s big hand had an adequate grip on the beautiful little bowl of red and misty pearly green. “How long has it been kept on that stand in that room?”
“A long time. A couple of years.”
“Is it used to drop things into? Like an ash tray?”
“Not if I know it, it isn’t. Sometimes some ass drops a cigarette in it.”
“Well, this time it wasn’t a cigarette.” There was a note of grim satisfaction in the inspector’s voice. He put the bowl down on the table, and took from it, with his thumb and forefinger, a ball of crumpled paper; and displayed it as a prestidigitator displays a coin he has plucked from the air. “It was this. I’m not going to open it out. One of my men did, part way. It’s a piece of ordinary bond paper, and clinging to it are particles of white powder. He dampened a little of it, and it smellslike cyanide. So I withdraw my request that you permit yourselves to be searched.”
There was a stir, a rustle, and dead silence. It was broken by Henry Pomfret.
“Christ,” he muttered incredulously. “In the incense bowl. Then …”
“Then what, Mr. Pomfret?”
“Nothing.” Pomfret shook his head as in disbelief. “Nothing.”
“Did the fact that this was found in the bowl suggest something to you?”
“No! Nothing!”
Damon gazed at him and persisted. “Did it perhaps remind you that you saw someone go to that bowl and drop something in it?”
“No! It didn’t remind me of anything! I was merely going to say that this makes it—that someone here did it. If I had seen anyone drop something in that bowl I’d have fished it out; I always do. Anyway, I wasn’t there, I was in here with Fox.”
“But you might,” Fox put it, “have seen it earlier in the afternoon.” He looked at the inspector. “I was going to suggest before that you may have got a wrong impression from what Schaeffer said. He told you that he served the bar when Mrs. Pomfret rang and told him to. When these people—most of them, he said—were already there. But that wasn’t when they left Pomfret and me here and went to the yellow room, it was before we came to this room at all. I arrived at a quarter past two and the bar was in there then, and everyone else was present.” He returned to Pomfret. “So you could have seen someone drop something into the bowl then, couldn’t you?”
“I suppose I could,” Pomfret admitted gruffly. “But I didn’t.”
“I did,” said a voice.
Swift glances darted to Garda Tusar.
“Who?” Damon barked.
Garda, ignoring him, left her chair over by
“Good here. That’s sensible. Though probably futile.”
“It is an indignity,” Felix Beck growled.
Hebe said, “It’s horribly revolting.”
The door opened, and eyes went to it. A man entered and spoke across the room to Damon: “Craig wants you, Inspector,” and Damon nodded and tramped out. Everybody decided all at once that their muscles were cramped and shifted to new positions intheir chairs or on their feet. Low-voiced mutterings started. Adolph Koch asked Fox if they could be legally compelled to submit to a search, and Fox said no, and Ted Gill said they might as well submit anyway. Beck folded his arms and paced up and down, and a policeman yawned. Schaeffer, who had served the bar, expounded something lengthily to his colleague in an undertone. Tecumseh Fox leaned far backwards and stared at the ceiling, and was still in that position five minutes later when the door opened again and the inspector entered. He walked across to the end of the big table, which was about the geographical center of the assemblage, and held up an object in his hand for all to see.
“Do any of you recognize this?”
“Certainly.” Henry Pomfret spoke up. “It’s my Ju Chou incense bowl. Please don’t drop it!”
“I won’t.” Damon’s big hand had an adequate grip on the beautiful little bowl of red and misty pearly green. “How long has it been kept on that stand in that room?”
“A long time. A couple of years.”
“Is it used to drop things into? Like an ash tray?”
“Not if I know it, it isn’t. Sometimes some ass drops a cigarette in it.”
“Well, this time it wasn’t a cigarette.” There was a note of grim satisfaction in the inspector’s voice. He put the bowl down on the table, and took from it, with his thumb and forefinger, a ball of crumpled paper; and displayed it as a prestidigitator displays a coin he has plucked from the air. “It was this. I’m not going to open it out. One of my men did, part way. It’s a piece of ordinary bond paper, and clinging to it are particles of white powder. He dampened a little of it, and it smellslike cyanide. So I withdraw my request that you permit yourselves to be searched.”
There was a stir, a rustle, and dead silence. It was broken by Henry Pomfret.
“Christ,” he muttered incredulously. “In the incense bowl. Then …”
“Then what, Mr. Pomfret?”
“Nothing.” Pomfret shook his head as in disbelief. “Nothing.”
“Did the fact that this was found in the bowl suggest something to you?”
“No! Nothing!”
Damon gazed at him and persisted. “Did it perhaps remind you that you saw someone go to that bowl and drop something in it?”
“No! It didn’t remind me of anything! I was merely going to say that this makes it—that someone here did it. If I had seen anyone drop something in that bowl I’d have fished it out; I always do. Anyway, I wasn’t there, I was in here with Fox.”
“But you might,” Fox put it, “have seen it earlier in the afternoon.” He looked at the inspector. “I was going to suggest before that you may have got a wrong impression from what Schaeffer said. He told you that he served the bar when Mrs. Pomfret rang and told him to. When these people—most of them, he said—were already there. But that wasn’t when they left Pomfret and me here and went to the yellow room, it was before we came to this room at all. I arrived at a quarter past two and the bar was in there then, and everyone else was present.” He returned to Pomfret. “So you could have seen someone drop something into the bowl then, couldn’t you?”
“I suppose I could,” Pomfret admitted gruffly. “But I didn’t.”
“I did,” said a voice.
Swift glances darted to Garda Tusar.
“Who?” Damon barked.
Garda, ignoring him, left her chair over by
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