A Spoonful of Luger (25 page)

“If
this
is
the
duplicate,”
he
said,
“it obviously
wasn’t
in
its
pouch
under
the
table
when
Cleave
was
shot.”

“Doesn’t
seem
so,”
Sprague
agreed.

“And
it’s
inconceivable
that
Cleave
would
swallow
his
key
if
the
box
was
open.
Anyway,
if
his
box
was
open,
he
could’ve
got
rid
of
the
key
easier
by
dropping
it
inside
and
slamming
the
lid.
Better
than
swallowing
it.”

Or
better
to
hide
it
under
his
tongue,
I
thought,
though
I
said
nothing.
A
key
under
a
tongue
is
likely
to
get
swallowed
if
somebody
pokes
a
Luger
under
your
nose.

“Then
how,”
said
Sprague,
“did
the
gun
get
into
the
box?”

“And
why?”
Bycroft
demanded.
“Why
leave
it
there,
and
prove
he
managed
to
get
into
the
box?”

“With
one
key
down
Cleave’s
gullet
and
the
other
in
the
hands
of
the
police,”
Sprague
amplified.
He
chewed
happily.

“Would
you
mind
explaining
this,”
their
super
asked
with
interest.

But
Bycroft
wasn’t
in
any
mood
for explaining.
He’d
been
annoyed,
having
to
come
here
on
an
apparent
side
issue.
Now,
all
of
a
sudden,
it
wasn’t
a
side
issue
any
more
—
but
still
he
wasn’t
happy.
In
fact,
he
was
furious.
He
wasn’t
the
sort
to
enjoy
dead
ends.
Puzzles
yes,
but
this
was
like
a
crossword
with
a
misprinted
clue.

“Right,”
he
said
shortly,
pacing
a
little.
“Take
it
logically.
The
murder
weapon
apparently
finds
its
way
into
a
locked
box,
when
there’s
no
way
of
opening
it.
That’s
an
impossibility.
So
there’s
only
one
explanation.”
He
looked
round
brightly.
“It
wasn’t
the
murder
weapon.”

I
looked
at
Sprague,
expecting
him
to
interrupt.
But
Sprague
calmly
waited
for
his
superior
to
dig
himself
well
in.

“There
must
have
been
two
guns,”
said
Bycroft.
“One’s
Cleave’s
own.
That’d
explain
why
it
was
in
the
box.
The
murderer
used
another
one.”

You
can’t
just
stand
by
and
let
it
go
on.
“Now
that’s
bloody
stupid,”
I
broke
in.
Couldn’t
help
it.

They
all
turned
and
stared
at
me.
So
far
I’d
remained
unnoticed
by
being
very
quiet,
but
now
I
was
the
centre
of
attention.
The
light
seemed
to
be
very
strong,
and
concentrated
on
me.

“What
did
you
say?”
Bycroft
demanded.

“That
shell
case,”
I
said,
hurrying
on,
“and
that
bullet,
both
came
from
a
7.65
Luger.
And
it
was
a
7.65
Luger
in
that
box.
You
can’t
say
there’s
two
around,
two
guns
the
same.
The
coincidence
— ”

“Have
you
finished?”
Bycroft
demanded,
trying
to
ensure
that
I
had.

“No
I
haven’t.
You
tell
him,
sergeant.
They
made
millions
of
the
things,
but
not
many
of
them
got
over
here.
You’re
expecting
too
much,
Frank.”

Sprague
seemed
confused
by
my
appeal.
He
could
hardly
support
me,
though
he
knew
that
what
I
said
was
true.
His
gaze
went
past
my
left
ear,
and
he
said
nothing.

“Two
guns,”
Bycroft
insisted.

“Both
Lugers?”

“It’d
been
fired,”
Sprague
observed
thoughtfully,
and
when
Bycroft
glared
at
him
he
shrugged
and
added:
“The
one
in
the
box
—
and
recently.”

He’d
been
unable
to
resist
a
chance
to
annoy
Bycroft.

“So
it’d
been
fired,”
Bycroft
said
angrily.
“I’ll
accept
that.
Then
I’d
say
it
must
have
been
fired
by
Cleave
himself,
which
means
it’d
have
to
have
been
at
somebody
else.
I
might
even
expect
to
find
another ... ”
He
stopped,
turned
quickly,
and
the
pathologist,
at
the
swing
doors,
gave
a
mirthless
smile.

“Funny
you
should
say
that,”
he
said,
“but
there’s
evidence
of
a
blow
or
wound
along
the
side
of
that
one’s
head.”
He
nodded
back
towards
the
slab.
“It
could
have
been
a
gunshot
wound,
if
that’s
what
you’re
looking
for.”

“There
you
are
then.”
Bycroft
beamed,
and
the
tension
streamed from
him
as
he
shrugged
his
shoulders
in
triumph.

Oh
yes,
there
we
were,
with
Bycroft
digging
himself
even
deeper
into
a
case
that
seemed
to
be
taking
us
further
from
Dulcie
every
minute.
I
tried
desperately
to
retrieve
him
from
a
situation
I’d
provoked
myself.