Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Well, we’ve not traced any to date,” persisted the inspector. “There’s a total absence of motive.”

Crook smiled. The local inspector was rather rushing matters.

“In the dark, one might slip here,” the detective suggested.

Again the inspector countered.

“Bright moon last night,” he said.

“Which rose at twelve,” added Crook dryly. “Is there any reason why Mr. Sherman might not have met his death at eleven?”

The inspector admitted there was no reason to exclude this possibility.

“We can’t say for certain what time he died,” he observed. “But it must have been after ten, because before that the servants would have seen him fall — or heard him. Mrs. Sherman sleeps on the other side of the house, so she wouldn’t have seen him.”

“But wasn’t Mrs. Sherman alarmed when he didn’t come to bed?”

“Separate rooms,” remarked the inspector succintly. “Her story is that she said good night to him at ten, and that he said he’d probably be working late.”

“I see,” mused Crook, glancing again down into the area, and then raising his eyes to the pretty, sun-lit lawn. “A man who was going to commit suicide might say that.”

“And, also, he might say it,” interposed the inspector, “if — suppose — he expected a visitor?”

“I see your point,” agreed Crook, reentering the room and gazing at the table. “One glass, unbroken, on the table, and another glass, smashed, on the floor. That does suggest a visitor. Any idea who it might be?”

“None,” admitted the inspector ruefully. “Wish I had.”

“You’ve questioned Mrs. Sherman about this?”

“Yes. No result. She hasn’t any idea either.”

“The servants?”

“No one let any visitor in.”

“Then Mr. Sherman must have let the visitor in. Assuming there was one, was the front door bolted this morning when the servants got down?”

“It was. I ascertained that.”

“That’s interesting. You see, inspector, that means our visitor couldn’t have left by the front door, if he’d murdered Mr. Sherman. He must have left by the French windows.”

“And perhaps he came in by the same way,” frowned the inspector. “Believe me, this isn’t really a suicide case, Mr. Crook.”

Crook did not answer immediately. He walked round the room leisurely, then examined the French windows. He peered at the curtains and stopped.

“What about finger-prints?” he inquired as he rose.

“Wash out. Can’t trace anything useful in that line,” grunted the inspector.

“Then let’s try another line. How is Mrs. Sherman taking this?”

“She seems dazed.”

“And upset?”

“Of course.”

“I mean humanly upset, inspector. Not sensationally.”

“Well, I can’t say she seems prostrated with grief exactly. From the few inquiries I’ve made, I gather they’d — well, they’d got a good way beyond the honeymoon stage.”

“Whom did you gather that from?”

“The servants.”

“Why, then, inspector,” exclaimed Crook, smiling, “Mr. Sherman did have a trouble!”

“Oh, but there’s nothing special in that,” argued the inspector. “That’s just... well, the ordinary way of it, isn’t it? A wife doesn’t expect to sit on her husband’s knee after four years.”

“How long have you been married?” asked Crook innocently.

“Eight months — but that’s beside the question,” replied the inspector with a sudden grin.

“Then let’s get back to the question. You say this isn’t suicide. Can you think of a motive for the murder — if such it actually is?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Can you think of somebody who might be the murderer?”

“No idea.”

“Might it be, perhaps, a man wearing a brown coat, with one button missing?”

“What?” shouted the inspector, but was calm again the next instant, and annoyed at his unprofessional emotion. “Let’s hear some more about that!”

“I found this brown bone button beneath the curtain just now,” smiled the detective. “First point to me, inspector.”

The inspector advanced quickly and examined the button. His expression was a study: it was divided between professional delight at the clew, and personal chagrin that he had not unearthed the clew himself.

“Wonder how I came to miss that,” he muttered.

“Perhaps it wasn’t there when you first looked?” suggested Crook. “Perhaps it’s off your coat?”

“Try again,” growled the inspector. “We don’t wear buttons like that.”

“It might be one of Mr. Sherman’s.”

“More likely the mysterious visitor’s—”

“Whose presence we merely assume from the evidence of a second wine glass,” mused Crook.

“Plus a button now,” added the inspector.

II

At Crook’s suggestion, they summoned the parlormaid. She was a tall, trim girl, and, so the inspector whispered, the only member of the staff who had shown no signs of hysteria. When she appeared, the detective eyed her approvingly, and decided that he could get straight to business.

“I want you to answer a few questions, if you will,” he began pleasantly. “Can you give me a list of the people who have called here during the last week?”

If the girl felt any surprise, she concealed it. She knew her place, whether in the presence of her mistress or a police official.

Yes, she thought she could give a list. Though, of course, it was difficult to remember everybody.