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gun, there. Handled only by the deceased.”
    â€œWhere did you find it?” It was a short, snubby revolver, which had not been fired.
    â€œOn the floor, sir—chalk mark behind that packing case.”
    Curwen turned, to gaze at a gap made by the removal of a floorboard.
    â€œBlood all right, sir. I’ve taken a swab.”
    Curwen added the medical report to the known movements of the Ford and the Daimler.
    â€œOne of those two men who were in the Ford dotted him one when he drew that gun. Then one or both came back and cleaned up, after the sandbin act,” he muttered. “Amateurs in a panic!” He turned to Detective Sergeant Rouse. “Check that cosh with the wound. I’m going back to the Town Hall.”
    The best room in the suite, which Curwen himself personally occupied, was a subtle challenge to Scotland Yard. The thickness of the carpet, for one thing. An impressive reference library, which included Who’s Who. Two gridded electric wall maps. A dictaphone. An enormous desk with a number of shiny gadgets, whose purpose he intended to explore.
    In an alcove sat Benjoy, his aide, using a silent typewriter. Benjoy was a pink young man, fresh from the training college, who was shaping very well. He stopped typing as his chief dropped into a padded swivel chair.
    â€œI’ll dictate when you’ve finished what you’re doing.” There was a curve in the pad of the chair that rested the small of his back. “London has a lot to learn from the provincial towns.”
    â€œYes, sir. A few items have come in. Marchmont, Assistant Manager of WillyBee Products , thought deceased was in Madrid and has no information. He gave address of deceased’s London flat. A Miss Aspland, deceased’s niece, spoke from the flat for Mrs. Brengast. The two ladies will be in Renchester at three this afternoon. More!”
    Curwen made a rough note on the ornate blotting pad.
    â€œGo ahead, boy!”
    â€œDeceased and deceased’s wife, sir. Brengast turned up at the Red Lion without previous booking. He identified himself to the manager but refused to register until the next day as he wanted no publicity. He said he was expecting his wife, who had missed him at Diddington and would probably arrive later. The only stranger to arrive in Diddington was a young, well-dressed lady with a dressing case who got off at the railway halt at seven-fifty-five. She tried to hire a car but none was available. According to a garage hand, she was offered a lift to Renchester by a traveller for Rondgarth Draperies. It looks very much as if she might have been Mrs. Brengast.”
    â€œWho turned up at Diddington, got a lift to Renchester, changed her mind about meeting her husband and went back to her London flat?” queried Curwen.
    â€œJust so, sir! But I didn’t guess anything.”
    â€œThis time you’re allowed to guess that she didn’t help bash him with a crowbar and put him in a sandbin. I don’t see a sex angle in this job, with two killers. Ready for dictation?” He eyed the dictaphone with mistrust of himself. “You haven’t had much practice with these things, so I’d better bawl it out as usual.”
    Curwen’s preliminary “appreciation” for his chief had the unfortunate effect of revealing that the local bobbies on the beat—mainly by luck, of course!—had done all the work. Little remained, he thought, but to tidy up the case for the lawyers. Why the Yard had been called in was the Chief Constable’s secret.
    The stream of paper had already started. Within the next hour enough information came in about the three men at the lockhouse for Curwen to write their obituaries.
    An item, which seemed to be of secondary interest only, came from Weston’s Garage. At two-ten a.m. approximately, a woman had ordered a car on the lockhouse telephone. A car was shortly sent—by arrangement with The Hollow Tree