CHAPTER TEN

There was nobody present in the winding-room as Maria looked into it. The lights were full on, the rewinding equipment carried an empty spool, and the arc rectifier was whirring rhythmically—but this was all.

Maria climbed the remaining steps into the projection-room itself. Dick Alcot, who was taking care of the machine nearest the door, gave a violent start when he saw Maria come in somewhat laboriously.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Alcot....” Maria drew herself erect and nodded to him composedly.

Alcot had possession of himself immediately. “Last person I expected to see up here,” he said; then raising his voice he called over the machine’s noise and the chatter of the monitor-speaker. “Hey—Fred! Here’s Miss Black!”

Fred Allerton and Peter Canfield came out of the steel-walled slide room. They looked as though they had been caught playing truant—then Allerton grinned sheepishly as Maria’s quick eye dropped to the ace of clubs in his hand.

“Just passing the time on,” he explained. “These kids’ matinées give you the pip.”

“Quite,” Maria smiled. “I am sorry I disturbed you, young man: in fact, I must apologise to all three of you. But I just wanted to have a look at the business end of pictures. Mr. Lincross was kind enough to extend his permission.”

“Oh!” Allerton looked rather nonplussed. Peter Canfield took the line of least resistance, dodged round Maria’s forbidding fígure, and hurried from the room. Alcot’s pale eyes, full of inquiry, watched the proceedings over the top of the hot projector lamphouse.

“My desire for a survey is really connected with those amplified revolver shots in Love on the Highway,” Maria went on, thinking out her words as she gazed about her. “When you put the sound up three stages—”

“Three faders,” Allerton corrected, being a stickler for technical accuracy.

“Faders, I beg your pardon. What did you do?”

Allerton turned and pointed to a square box about four inches high and five broad on the wall between the projectors. In the centre of the box was a knob controlling a pointer. At each side of the pointer’s arc were numbers. At the moment the pointer was at “4” on the right-hand curve of figures.

“This machine Dick is running is working on Fader Four,” Allerton explained. “Stepping it up three faders merely means putting the pointer up to seven. Thereby the sound is that much increased.”

“I see,” Maria said, rather absently. Her eyes had travelled above the fader control to a square steel-framed notice that read—IT IS STILL ESSENTIAL TO SAVE COPPER DRIPS AND CARBON STUB SHEATHING FOR SALVAGE. ARE YOU DOING IT?

Allerton followed her gaze. “Are you wondering what that means?” he asked, inwardly surprised at her lack of interest in his fader exposition.

“I am merely wondering what ‘copper drips’ and ‘carbon stub’ implies, young man. This place is a mystery to me, you know.”

“Simple enough,” he said, and went across to a big tin standing in a corner of the room. From it he took a handful of short carbon lengths, about three inches long, and held them out in his palm.

“Stubs! As Chief it is my job to count them when they are put in this tin. When they get too short for the arc-jaws to hold them, we put them by for salvage. The copper coating is useful for war potential. Pure copper, you see. As for drippings, they are the carbon and copper amalgam that falls from the electrodes when they’re heated. Rather like—metallic breadcrumbs.”

“Ah, I see! Most instructive.”

Allerton tossed the stumps back into the tin and then went on to explain all the mysteries of the projection-room in detail. Maria took a polite and apparently keen interest in all he told her, more out of respect for his ready generosity than anything else, for she had already gathered all she needed.... She chose a moment when Allerton and Alcot’s backs were turned to dive her hand into the waste tin, snatch up a carbon stub and hide it in her palm—then again she was the ready listener.

At last Allerton led her out of the projection-room and down into the winding department. His fund of knowledge seemed to have come to an end at last, and he stood looking at her, his sombre dark eyes reflecting an inner doubt.

“I suppose you didn’t really want to know all that,” he said, after he had dismissed Peter Canfield from the room. “You really only wanted to know about the fader?”

“Actually, yes—but it was all very instructive.”

Allerton rubbed the back of his head. “This is the first chance I have ever had to talk to you alone, Miss Black,” he said finally. “And it has upset a lot of the ideas I’d conceived about you.”

“About my being nosy?” Maria suggested calmly; and he gave a start.

“Nan’s been talking to you again!” he snapped.

“Yes, young man, she has—but she has only your interests at heart, believe me.”

“Did Nancy tell you about that air-rifle?” Allerton asked. “She’s seen it before—”

“Yes, so she said. It is being checked upon by the redoubtable Inspector....” Maria considered Allerton’s earnest, high-cheek-boned face for a moment, then: “If anybody were to take a number of carbon stubs from that tin you showed me, would you know about it?”

“Of course. I keep count of them for the salvage officer.”

Maria smiled at his surprised look and turned to the doorway.

“Just an idea that struck me,” she said vaguely. “I get them at times....”

* * * *

When Maria left the cinema—after having assured Lincross that she had learned all she needed—she went to the police station at the far end of High Street, and found Inspector Morgan in his office.

“I gave you a ring at Roseway, Miss Black,” he said, when he had drawn up a chair for her. “They told me you were out on business for the afternoon.”

“Yes, indeed. And here is the nature of the business.”

Maria opened her hand over the desk and dropped the carbon stub upon it.

“What’s this?”

“A carbon stub, Inspector—”

“Yes, I can see that. But what’s it for?”

“Spectrograph analysis. If you send that stub to your ballistics department and have its outer copper sheath spectrum checked with that of the slug which killed Harcourt, I think it will be found that the two spectra are identical.”

Morgan picked up the copper stub and tossed it in his palm. Then he gave a grim smile. “I suspect, Miss Black, that you have stolen a march on me!”

Maria looked at him blandly. “I am merely trying to help you and improve my own knowledge of criminology. While you were busy in one direction, I was busy in another. There are times when officialdom tends to frighten a suspect, whereas I, as a private individual, do not.”

Morgan merely grunted.

“I simply put two and two together,” Maria resumed. “We decided this morning that somebody working at the cinema perhaps bought the rifle. Whence came the copper? You said it might be from anywhere, but on reflection, I felt inclined to disagree. I recalled that if there is one place where copper abounds in these days of shortage, it is in a projection-room. So, under an absurd pretext—but convincing enough to Mr. Lincross—I got into the projection-room and appropriated this stub. If it checks exactly with the copper analysis of the slug, then we know that the copper for the slug came from the projection-room—and we also know that it was almost certainly somebody on the cinema staff who committed the crime.”

“Well, it’s a nice bit of reasoning,” Morgan admitted. “We’ll see what ballistics have to say about this. But I’ve got rather a cold douche to throw on this theory. It was not somebody from the cinema who bought the air-rifle!”

“Then who did?”

“A boy! A boy whom the store proprietor had never seen before. He came in about ten days ago—in an evening—handed over three pounds and bought the air-rifle....” Morgan paused, then went on with a touch of sensation in his voice.

“But I have established that young Peter Canfield sold the air-rifle to the store dealer some time ago, for thirty shillings. Atkinson—that’s the junk dealer—knows him well. It seems he often drops in to buy odds and ends, as youngsters will.”

“So that is how we stand!” Maria mused. “Young Peter sold it: he is a crack shot; the slug was possibly made from projection-room copper; and an unknown boy buys the gun at three pounds. Friend of Canfield’s? Maybe!”

Sudden interest had dawned on Morgan’s beefy face. “Did you say young Canfield is a crack shot?”

“Yes,” Maria replied absently. “I followed him to Lexham Fair yesterday afternoon and he swept the board when it came to the rifle range.”

“This makes it look bad for young Canfield—if the copper sheathing is the same as the slug.” Morgan said. “Obviously Canfield got his shooting skill from practice with that B.S.A. rifle. Then it looks as though, having sold it, he got it back again through a young friend and....”

“Shot Kenneth Harcourt with it? Maybe!” Maria narrowed her eyes. “Inspector, I have done all I can for the moment and must be on my way. The good Miss Tanby will be wondering where I have got to.... Might I inquire your next move?”

“I’m going to young Canfield’s home and find out all I can about him from his parents, then from him himself when he comes home from the afternoon show.”

Maria reflected. “Then I’m afraid Miss Tanby will have to manage a while longer,” she decided. “You see, Inspector, I have one or two pertinent questions to ask that young man myself. I hardly think his lavish spending yesterday can be accounted for by the selling of an air-rifle for thirty shillings—and some time ago at that.”

Maria rose to her feet and then stood considering as Morgan reached for his hat.

“A moment, Inspector. It might be more to our advantage to catch young Canfield when he is at home—and that won’t be for about an hour yet. Until then I think we might occupy ourselves in a more profitable way by visiting Lexham reference library and looking through the daily papers for about a week before Harcourt was released from prison—or at any rate in the issues immediately preceding the time when that air-rifle was bought from the second-hand store by that boy. The killer must have had some notification that Harcourt was due to leave prison, and as a once-famous financier I have little doubt but what his release date would find its way into the Press.”

“Well, we can look,” Morgan agreed. “Let’s be on our way.”

* * * *

They were in Lexham reference library in twenty minutes, both of them studying the large bound files of the daily newspapers for a fortnight previous. It was not a job that Morgan entirely relished—but he remained doggedly at the search in the hope that something might come out of it.

Something did when Maria finally nudged his elbow and pointed to an inconspicuous corner of the Daily Clarion.

“Here we are, Inspector—five days before Harcourt was released from jail. Read it....”

Morgan did so:

“Kenneth Harcourt, known in the business world as ‘Moneybags’ Harcourt during the ’30s, and who was sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of Malcolm Landon, in 1934, by Mr. Justice Clayton, will become a free man next Saturday, having concluded a fifteen-year sentence. He has been a model prisoner and....

“Et cetera, et cetera,” Morgan murmured, glancing up. “Yes, this is all we need to know. How about the other papers? Do they check?”

They looked through the issues for the same day, but only the Daily Illustrated seemed to think the information was worth printing. Satisfied at Maria’s nod, Morgan put the files back and then went out with her to the car again.

“Well, that worked, anyway,” he said in satisfaction.

“True. We know now that it was possible for the killer to be aware of Harcourt’s release from jail five days before the release, which would obviously give ample time to make arrangements for killing him.”

“Yes—and the air-rifle was bought a fortnight ago, if Miss Crane is to be believed. That would make it before the newspaper announcement appeared.”

“Nancy said ‘about’ a fortnight, Inspector. There is not much difference between twelve and fourteen days. I think we may take it that it was bought almost immediately after that newspaper announcement.”

“In that case, our next move is obvious. Langhorn has only one big newsagent who supplies all the people in the neighbourhood. From him we can discover who, locally, takes the Daily Clarion and Daily Illustrated, and from the addresses we are given, we can decide which of them is most likely to interest us.”

Maria sat back in the leather seat and smiled contentedly. “We are making good progress, Inspector.”

Neither of them spoke until they were in Langhorn again and Morgan drew up outside Naysmith’s, the large newspaper agents in the town square.

“Maybe I can make this inquiry better than you, Miss Black,” Morgan said, climbing out.

Maria nodded and sat thinking her own thoughts for nearly ten minutes until Morgan came back.

“Nobody we are interested in takes the Daily Illustrated,” he said, “but Allerton’s family, Lincross, and Bradshaw all take the Daily Clarion.”

“From which, Inspector, we are to infer—what?”

“Just nothing beyond the fact that all three of them had an equal chance of knowing that Harcourt was coming out of prison. But it doesn’t help us to pin anything on them.”

“True....” Maria sat with her eyes half-closed. “In which case we can only move on to something more tangible—to Peter Canfield’s home, for instance.”

Starting the car up again Morgan drove down the side streets into Millington Terrace and drew up finally before Number 24.... The Terrace itself had no right to such a claim for half of its length: it was a jumbled mass of cheap property—but farther away, perhaps half a mile or so, more enterprise had been shown and massive houses had been erected, all of them detached and seeming like palaces by comparison with their lowly neighbours.

At Morgan’s knocking, a heavy-busted woman in a soiled blouse and grease-spotted brown skirt opened the door. She was still fairly young, and the yellowness of her hair and shape of her features placed her instantly as Peter’s mother.

“Mrs. Canfield?” Morgan questioned, and as the woman gave a dubious nod he added: “I’d like a word with your son—Peter. Nothing serious.”

“All right.” Mrs. Canfield stood aside, still clearly alarmed by the official uniform. “’E’s ’avin’ his tea in the back kitchen.”

Maria followed the Inspector through a narrow hall and so they came into a back room. A big window, across which the curtains had not been drawn, gave on to a flagged yard powdered with snow vaguely visible in the dying grey of the short afternoon.

Peter Canfield sat in the midst of a confusion of crockery, soiled tablecloth, old magazines, schoolbooks, and a general miscellany of odds and ends. He was eating bread and jam and reading a folded magazine at the same time. Beside him at the table a blonde girl was chewing her pencil over a history book, while yet another blonde girl about two years younger was lying on her stomach on the battered sofa, her black-stockinged legs kicking lazily in the air and her eyes fixed on a novel with a most sinister cover.

“Excuse the mess,” Mrs. Canfield apologised. “The kids won’t be tidy no’ow. Our Margy always does ’er ’omework on a Saturday night, y’see.”

“’Tisn’t homework, ma,” our Margy volunteered, glancing up. “We broke up yesterday for Christmas, or have you forgotten? I’m just looking if King Charles really did— Oh!”

Margy—and her sister too—became conscious of Inspector Morgan and Maria simultaneously. Instantly they both jumped up and went hurrying from the room. Peter Canfield set down his bread and jam and frowned deeply.

“You’d like a chair, wouldn’t you?” Mrs. Canfield suggested, “You too, lady?

Morgan shook his head but Maria gave an imperturbable nod and settled rather uneasily on the bentwood pushed across towards her.

“I’d like a word with you, young man....” Morgan stood beside the table and looked down at Peter in a vague attempt at geniality. “I believe you’re a pretty good shot with an air-rifle....”

Peter looked half-frightened, yet half-defiant. “Yes, I am,” he admitted, with a glance at his mother’s worried face. “But how did you know?”

“It’s my business to find things out, son. Now, I want you to give me some information. You sold a B.S.A. air-rifle recently to Mr. Atkinson, who runs the second-hand store near the cinema—and you received thirty shillings for it. Right?”

Peter studied his plate. Then his mother suddenly exploded.

“Peter! You didn’t! Not that lovely air-rifle your Uncle Ted sent you—? An’ never tellin’ me a thing about it, neither!”

“The fact remains, Mrs. Canfield, that Peter here did just that,” Morgan said. “You did sell that gun now, didn’t you, Peter?”

“Yes, I did! I wanted some extra money. A fellow can’t get far these days on my salary, and I’ve—I’ve got private matters to look after.”

“Girls?” Maria suggested dryly.

“Look,” Morgan said, edging stolidly into the conversation again. “You sold that air-rifle—but did you know it had been bought by another boy for three pounds?”

“No, I didn’t! I saw it on sale at three pounds in Atkinson’s window for a while, and I realised that he’d welshed me—but there was nothing I could do about it. Then I noticed one morning, maybe that it had gone.”

“But you knew that an air-rifle had killed that man in A-11 in the cinema?” Morgan asked sharply.

“Yes—Fred Allerton told me. But I never connected it with my own air-rifle. In fact, I never thought about it again.”

“And you’ve absolutely no idea who bought it from Atkinson’s?”

“None, sir. Honest!”

Maria leaned forward. “Young man, there are a few questions I would like to ask you myself. You don’t have to answer, but if you are anxious to sec justice done and help the Inspector to find a murderer, you will tell all you can.... Now, do I understand that you gained your prowess at shooting with the air-rifle which you sold?”

“I should think he did, mum,” Peter’s mother declared. “’Is Uncle Ted sent it to ’im. ’E found it in his lumber-room, and except for a rusty barrel on the outside it were all right. Once he got it, Pete ’ere never stopped firing the thing from out of ’is bedroom window. It weren’t safe for me or the rest of the kids to look outside. ’E used to shoot at bottles, ’e did, and—”

“Quite, Mrs. Canfield, quite,” Maria interrupted, then she looked back at Peter. “So you practised here, did you? Did you ever take the rifle to the cinema and practise there?”

“No, m’m, I didn’t. Be no chance to practise there.”

“Then nobody knew that you possessed such a rifle?”

“Don’t see how they could’ve,” Peter said, logically. Then he frowned. “I can’t see how you know I’m a good shot, m’m. Who told you?”

“Nobody. I was a personal witness of your activities at the firing range at Lexham fair yesterday afternoon.”

Peter opened his mouth and then shut it again.

“I do not pretend to know, young man, where you obtained the money for such a—hm!—blow-out, but I noticed you did not hold your hand.... I think you had better explain.”

“I should think you ’ad!” his mother declared hotly. “There’s enough uses for money right ’ere with your sisters still at school and your pa still in the army, without you gallivantin’. What’s all this about? Speak up sharp!”

“I don’t know,” Peter answered sullenly.

“I think you do,” Maria decided. “You told Molly Ibbetson that you had plenty of money. You went to Lexham fair, to the Temple Café, and finally to the Palace Dance Hall. You did far more than could be done on thirty shillings, if we assume for a moment that you retained the proceeds from the air-rifle that long—which I greatly doubt.”

“Peter,” Morgan said, “where did you get the money to have such a good time?”

“A—a man gave me five pounds,” the youth said sheepishly.

There was something resembling a strangled gasp from Mrs. Canfield as the thought of losing five pounds proved too much for her.

“Men don’t hand out five pounds to boys of your age without a very good reason,” Morgan said grimly. “Who was this man? You’ve got to tell us, boy.”

“I met him in Langhorn Square a week yesterday....” Peter did not dare to look up as he confessed. “I wasn’t looking for him, or anything like that: I never even saw him before. He just stopped me and asked if I was the third operator from the Langhorn Cinema. I said that I was, and then he said that he was an inventor and wanted some carbon copper in a hurry for an experiment. Only cinemas can get it in these days, or else essential works. He asked me if I could get some.”

“Then?” Morgan demanded, after he and Maria had exchanged looks.

“I said I didn’t see how I could get him any since all the carbons—unused and stumps—are in Fred’s keeping. He keeps them locked up, you see. Mr. Lincross gets them in every six months, then hands them on to Fred who keeps a careful check on the number we use. So this chap asked me if I could get him some stumps. I said I couldn’t do that either, because Fred had got them all counted for salvage.... Then he said he’d give me five quid for a dozen carbon stumps. Well, that is a lot of money to me, and I knew it would be two more weeks before Fred counts the stumps again. I decided I’d get a dozen stumps and risk being able to replace them somehow later on.”

“Obviously, then, you did,” Maria said. “And then what?”

“I met this chap the same place on Saturday night—week ago tonight that is—and he gave me five pounds in notes.”

“Which makes tracing them impossible,” Maria reflected. “Did you recognise the man? His voice? Anything?”

“No. Never heard his voice before—and as I said, I never saw him before, either.”

“What did he look like?” Morgan asked.

“He was about my height, pot-bellied, wearing a cap and a light mackintosh. He had a sort of Old Bill moustache.”

Morgan wrote swiftly in his notebook. “Did he give a name?”

“Yes. He said he was Mr. Andrews and that he lived in Langhorn here. But how he knew all about me, I don’t know. Of course, I didn’t ask the girls if they’d seen such a man in case I gave myself away.”

“Did you get a clear look at his face?” Morgan questioned.

“No, sir. We weren’t near a street lamp and that peaked cap sort of hid his features. I only remember that his face didn’t seem to match his stomach. Men with fat stomachs usually have double chins, but he hadn’t.”

Morgan closed his notebook and considered. “Well, young man, I think that’s all we need to ask you for now. But I’d advise you to be wary of strangers in future!”

“I will!” Peter declared fervently; then suddenly he seemed to resolve a thought that had been troubling him. “Look here, Inspector, I think you are going an awfully long way round to solve this murder. Why don’t you just question Molly Ibbetson? She knows who killed that man in A-11. She told me as much.”

“She—what?” Morgan’s eyes went wide and Maria compressed her lips in silent vexation.

“Right enough!” Peter insisted. “I tried to make her tell me who it was, but she wouldn’t. She’d have to tell you!”

“I’ll have a word with her,” Morgan promised, setting his jaw. “That’s a most useful piece of information, my boy, and—”

“One more thing,” Maria interrupted. “What time did you get home last night, young man?”

“’E was in ’ere at exactly arf-past ten!” Mrs. Canfield said bitterly. “Too late for ’im—and I told ’im so!”

“Half-past ten?” Maria repeated. “And you didn’t go out again, Peter?”

“No,” Mrs. Canfield declared. “That ’e didn’t!”

* * * *

Inspector Morgan had driven the car halfway back towards Roseway before he put his thoughts into words. “It begins to look as though another party whom we hadn’t reckoned with enters into this: a fat man with a walrus moustache. It’s confoundedly annoying.”

Maria smiled. “If I recall my textbooks correctly, Inspector, a criminal seeking to achieve safety will often resort to overelaboration and create an alter-ego. I’m sure that the man with the Old Bill moustache was disguised. A little padding under the mackintosh would create the pot-belly—as Peter rather indelicately put it; and the Old Bill moustache could have been a piece of hearthrug clipped into the nose bone with bent wire. Such a disguise would never fool an adult, and even less an astute police inspector, but on a dark night it would very likely fool an inexperienced youth anxious to make a little money on the side.”

Morgan began to look relieved. “You think that it was perhaps one of the cinema staff in disguise?”

“Since the staff had all left the cinema at that time—we presume—I think it is possible. We don’t know that it was one of the cinema staff, but we are entitled to assume so.”

“Come to think of it,” Morgan said presently, “Bradshaw wears a mackintosh and cap. I noticed that when I was called to the cinema just after the murder.”

“True,” Maria agreed, “but we must remember that Peter described the man as about his own height—which is about five foot nine. Bradshaw is all of six feet. Of course, there is the ancient subterfuge of making oneself look smaller by giving at the knees—very simple in the darkness and with the knees hidden by a mackintosh—but even so I dislike such a theory. It’s—amateur.”

“There’s another point,” Morgan went on. “Why on earth did he go to such fantastic lengths to get a few carbon stumps when he could have got them out of the projection-room for himself?”

“I can only assume—very roughly—that it was done to deflect guilt on to somebody else, to make Allerton, or Canfield, or even Alcot, look as though they were responsible. An inquiry might have brought the mysterious Mr. Andrews into the picture—via Peter, of course—and thereby all suspicion would switch to him: Andrews. Just the old, old tale, Inspector, of a guilty party laying red herrings. But we, fortunately, have been quick to grasp the truth.”

“Yes indeed!” Something like a glow emanated from Morgan.

“And, of course, we can now dispense with Peter as the possible attacker of either myself or Molly Ibbetson. We heard it said that he was in the house at ten-thirty, under the keen eye of his mother. I was attacked at about twenty to eleven, and Molly shortly afterwards. So it was not Peter who did that, and so he recedes from my interest as the possible killer of Kenneth Harcourt.”

“Um—yes,” Morgan admitted. “And talking of Molly reminds me that I’ve got to have a serious talk with that young lady. She actually knows who the killer is—if Canfield is to be believed.”

“Molly may well be speaking the truth,” Maria said, “but last night, when I presume she made the partial confession, she was somewhat under the influence of drink. I think, knowing girls as I do, that you will only frighten her out of the picture altogether if you question her. And if she really knows something, that would be a pity.”

“Surely you don’t suggest that I leave her untouched when she may have the answer to this whole business?”

“By no means—but this is not the time. Later on she may become the chief witness, and if she gets scared away—to the extent of running from home —it would be most disturbing.”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” Morgan growled. “I don’t see why I should leave direct evidence uninvestigated....”

“Naturally, Inspector, we shall have to find out whom the boy was who bought that air-rifle.”

“Yes, I know that.” Morgan sounded irritable.

“That boy has to be found—and questioned,” Maria said imperturbably. “I trust also that you noted the fact, Inspector, that the carbon stumps were asked for after the rifle had been purchased? The rifle was bought ten days ago, and the stumps a week ago tonight.”

“I noticed; and I’m wondering why the killer did not use the proper slugs. Any ideas?”

“It would perhaps have meant that the killer himself would have had to buy them—or else he would again have employed a boy to do it for him. Now, when you get too many young people doing odd things, they discuss it in private and trouble ensues....”

“Too many cooks,” Morgan agreed.

“Exactly. So our friend used another method. He obtained the copper from the cinema through Peter, knowing full well that that boy would never talk in case he got into trouble with his chief. That is the reason why the proper slugs were not used. There are other probable reasons—to deflect guilt on to the operating staff, shortage of such slugs in these days; and also, to make a really vicious missile of destruction, our friend preferred to make his own instead of relying on the manufactured type which might not have been so deadly.”

Morgan drew the car up at the gates of Roseway. The expression on his bulldog face was halfway between annoyance and admiration.

“Your theories have helped a lot, Miss Black,” he said, as Maria climbed out into the powdered snow. “Just the same, I have my own ways of working, you know. I’m going to question that girl Molly and take a short cut to the truth.”

Maria shrugged. “As you will, Inspector. I hope you will be successful.... Don’t forget to let me know the result of that copper spectrum—and also don’t forget that in order to save her own skin from the killer, Molly Ibbetson may not tell the truth. And if she does not, you may arrest the wrong person!”