Free Death-Watch by John Dickson Carr Page B

“Mr. Stanley,” he replied, “was a former police officer. You didn’t let him tell the others about Ames?”
    “He didn’t seem to know Old—the inspector, sir. At least, he wasn’t paying any attention. He went over to the sideboard and swilled a lot of brandy out of the decanter, and then turned around without looking at us and went back where he’d come from, with the decanter in his hand. Like a blooming ghost, sir, if you know what I mean.”
    “Yes. Where is Dr. Watson now?”
    “Still with the young chap over in the lady’s bedroom,” answered Betts, not without a curious glance at the chief inspector. “Doctor says he got a nasty knock, but there’s no concussion, and he should be in passable state shortly. The kid—”
    “Kid?”
    “He’s about twenty-one, sir,” Sergeant Betts pointed out, from the austerity of a probable twenty-six. “He keeps laughing and saying something about ‘hope deferred, hope deferred.’ The two other ladies are with him. What now?”
    “Find Mr. Carver,” said Hadley, “and send him in here. Stand guard yourself.”
    When the sergeant had gone Hadley sat down by the table, taking out notebook and pencil. He carefully unwrapped the handkerchief, so that the bright gilt of the clock-hand, which had been cleaned, glittered under the lamp. Along the heavy end the gilt was streaked and blurred with what appeared to be the smudges of gloved hands, and similar streaks brushed faintly down its entire length.
    “Stolen off the clock before the paint was dry,” observed Hadley. “Or—I wonder if the stuffs thoroughly dried and set even yet? The thing’s still damp from washing, but it feels sticky. It should be dry, if the paint was put on last night. May be some sort of waterproof varnish that takes a long time to dry. Note,” he wrote down. “The look of these blurs lower down makes me think they might have been caused when it was pulled out of Ames’s neck. Therefore may be stains on murderer …”
    “And what a cheerful blighter it is,” said Dr. Fell, admiringly. He lumbered over to the table and blinked through cigar smoke at the blade. “H’m. Hah. Now, I wonder. It looks as though the thief had deliberately messed up the gilt, Hadley. He could have pinched that blade without so much of a mess, d’ye think? Or is it only that the fiend of subtlety is stalking this old brain again? I still wonder.”
    Hadley paid no attention.
    “Length—” he muttered, and measured it on the sole of his shoe. “You were a little out, Fell. This thing is eight and a half inches at the most; nearer eight … Ah! Come in, Mr. Carver.”
    Hadley sat round in his chair with a sort of dangerous politeness. The wheels were in motion now; the inquisition had begun; and sooner or later, Melson knew, they would interview a murderer. In the room of old clocks. Hadley tapped the gilt minute-hand slowly on the table as Carver closed the door behind him.

7
The Noise of a Chain
    E VERY TIME THEY SAW Johannus Carver, Melson thought he had put on one additional article of clothing. Now it was a frogged smoking-jacket over the pyjamas, in addition to the pepper-and-salt trousers. Melson had a picture of him frequently wondering what to do when his house was invaded; and each time putting in the interval by tramping upstairs to struggle into another garment, if only for an appearance of activity. His first glance was at the glass cases containing the clocks. Then he peered sharply at the panels on the right-hand side of the room—a glance which they did not interpret then, or understand at all until the case had taken a more terrible turn. His wrinkled neck looked scrawny without a collar, his head too big for it. The mild eyes blinked in the cigar smoke. His smile changed suddenly when, apparently for the first time, he saw the clock-hand.
    “Yes, Mr. Carver?” prompted Hadley, softly. “You recognize it?” Carver stretched out his hand, but withdrew it.
    “Yes, certainly.