A Spoonful of Luger (53 page)

“The
key
had
never
been
touched
since
it
was
first
put
in
here,”
he
said.

“So
you’re
believing
Tony?”

“Of
course.”

“You
hear
that,
Tony?
Somebody believes
you.”
There
was
movement, but
he
said
nothing.
“Pouch
never
been used,
so
the
key
lay
quietly,”
I
said. “It’s
made
some
very
nice
impressions. So
what?”
I
was
chattering
on,
to
make time.
I
hadn’t
thought
of
this
one.
A little
of
my
authority
seemed
to
have evaporated,
and
Bycroft
sensed
it.

“So
there
it
is,”
he
said
briskly, “stuck
under
that
table,
and
just waiting
for
somebody
to
use
it.
Don’t you
see,
George,
it’d
be
possible
to take
impressions
from
that,
use
them to
make
a
mould,
use
the
mould
to make
a
blank ...
and
they’d
got
a whole
twenty-four
hours
to
do
it
in.”

“HQ
aren’t
going
to
like
it,”
I
said morosely.
“They’re
not
going
to
be pleased
that
you
slit
the
stitching.”

“Never
mind
that,”
he
said
impatiently.

“But
I
do
mind
it,
Frank.
Because how
could
anybody
use
this
thing unless
they
slit
it
open?
And
that means
they
sewed
it
up
again.
It
ain’t easy,
Frank,
that
sort
of
stitching.”

“We
can
prove ... ”

“I
know.
Under
a
microscope.
What’d
we
ever
do
without
the
lab?
They’d
tell
you
it
hasn’t
been
re-sewn.”

“You
don’t
know
that.”

“You’re
being
stubborn.
How
would
he
do
it,
this
super
craftsman?
Wax?
Putty?
There’d
be
traces.
Can
you
see
any?”

“The
lab
— ”

“Oh,
to
hell
with
that
— you
and
your
labs.”

“And
anyway,
I
expect
it
could
be
done
photographically.”

“Oh
fine.
He’s
not
only
capable
of
making
moulds,
casting
the
metal,
filing
the
wards,
but
now
he’s
making
moulds
by
some
photographic
process
unknown
to
anybody ...
You’re
reaching,
Frank.
It’s
impossible.”

“Something’s
got
to
be
possible,”
he
cried.
“You
can’t
eliminate
everything.
The
other
pouch
— ”

“No,
Frank.
Cleave
used
that
every
day.
The
inside’ll
be
smooth
and polished,
and
with
no
impression.”

Slowly
and
almost
sheepishly
he
took
the
other
pouch
from
his
pocket.
It
hadn’t
been
slit.
He
squeezed
it,
and
one
glance
inside
was
enough.
Its
surface
was
black
and
shiny.

“You
know
what
Sherlock
said,”
I
paraphrased
philosophically.
“When
you’ve
eliminated
all
the
improbables,
that
which
is
left,
however
impossible,
you’re
stuck
with.”

“But
it
wasn’t
impossible.
It
was
done.”

“There
you
are,
then.”

“Where
am
I?”

“With
no
possible
case
against
Randall.”

“Oh
no.
Don’t
come
that
one.
It
was
just
as
possible
for
him
as
for
anybody
else.
I’ve
got
my
case.
Motive.
Means.
Opportunity.
And
when
I
question
him
— ”

“But
you
won’t
be
doing
that.
Somebody
else
will.
He’s
unfit ... ”

“He
tried
to
take
his
own
life.
He
knew
it
was
coming
to
an
end.”

“No,
Frank,”
I
said
quietly.
“Not
because
of
that.
A
person
tries
to
take
his
own
life
for
something
deeper
than
that.”

I
felt
the
stirrings
of
realization.
If
she’d
been
there,
I’d
have
kissed
her.
Anne
had
told
me,
had
dangled
it
in
front
of
my
nose,
and
still
I
hadn’t
understood.
But
now
I
knew,
without
any
doubt,
why
Randall
had
come
down
there.
My
heart
was
bounding
with
the
understanding
of
it.
Because
I knew
.

“He
couldn’t
live
with
himself
any
longer.”

“What
nonsense
is
that?”

“The
reason
he
couldn’t
have
killed
Cleave.
If
he
had,
you
wouldn’t
have
had
an
attempted
suicide,
you’d
have
had
a
proud
man,
calmly
turning
himself
in.
But
he
didn’t
do
that.”

“Talk,
talk,”
said
Bycroft
disgustedly.

“You
haven’t
thought
it
through.
Imagine
how
it’d
be
for
him.
He
was
on
the
fringe
of
this
car
business.
The
fringe,
Frank.”

“A
partner.”

I
turned,
sought
him
out
in
the
shadows.
“Tony,
is
that
right?
On
the
fringe?”

He
nodded
sullenly.
“I
suppose.
He
never
knew
much
about
it.”

“Nothing
much
more
than
the
name
Norman
Lyle?”

“I
don’t
reckon
he
would.”

“And
that
the
stuff
got
picked
up
on
Saturdays?”

Tony
laughed
hoarsely.
“He’d
drift
down
here
on
Mondays,
to
see
what
there
was.”