The Case of the Dead Diplomat by Basil Thomson

at his watch and Richardson called for the bill, which proved not to be as extravagant as he had expected.
    â€œNow, messieurs,” said Bigot, “I will take you to the flat where the murder took place. It is quite near. We can go to it on foot.”
    The concierge appeared glad to see the police. “When shall I be able to clean the flat on the second floor, monsieur?” she asked. “The carpet will have to go to the cleaners.”
    â€œAll in good time, madame,” replied Bigot. “If you will now lend me your key, it may bring the moment for cleaning one day earlier. These gentlemen have to visit the flat.”
    The English detectives found the little sitting-room very much as it must have appeared on the morning after the murder. A stiff brown stain on the carpet indicated the spot where the body had been found. Bigot explained that the only change had been that the chairs had been pushed back to make room for the stretcher, and that a few things had been taken down to the police station. The lamp was still lying on the floor. One overturned chair had been left as it was. Richardson pounced on the waste-paper-basket, half concealed by the window curtain. There was torn paper in it. He pulled a large official envelope out of his pocket and poured into it the tiny fragments of paper, sealing down the flap and labelling it, “Contents of W.P. basket.” Then he proceeded to scrutinize every square inch of the floor by the light of an electric torch. Bigot sat down on the divan and watched him with a smile. Cooper, meanwhile, was making a rapid sketch plan of the room, aided by a pocket tape-measure. The room was only twelve feet by fourteen and it was overcrowded with furniture.
    Having completed his survey of the carpet, Richardson brought forward a chair, and addressing Bigot, said, “I must ask you to move from the divan, monsieur. If you will kindly take this chair…”
    Bigot complied with a laugh. “You English detectives take nothing for granted, I observe.”
    At a sign from Richardson, Cooper took one end of the divan while Richardson took the other. They brought it eighteen inches forward and tilted it. The carpet under the divan seemed not to have been dusted for many weeks, but the object that riveted the attention of the three men was an exposed roll of film from a Kodak camera. It was lying a few inches in from the edge of the divan.
    â€œHere is something,” remarked Richardson.
    â€œYou think so? To me it seems quite unimportant. All journalists nowadays carry cameras.”
    â€œWhere is Mr. Everett’s camera?”
    â€œHere,” said Cooper, “here on this shelf.”
    â€œLet’s have a look at it.” Richardson took it out of its leather case and measured the exposed film against it. He turned to Bigot. “You see, monsieur? This film could never have been used in this camera; it is two sizes larger.”
    â€œ Tiens! ” exclaimed Bigot, “but that is certainly a point; the film may have rolled out of the murderer’s pocket during the struggle. We will have it developed.”
    Richardson had moved over to a little buffet with a marble top. “This room smells strongly of whisky, and now I see why,” he said. He pointed to an uncorked decanter, from which a liberal libation had been poured into a glass. A siphon was standing beside it. “Look here, Cooper, this shows that Everett was pouring out a drink either for himself or for a visitor… and… stoop your head a little… he must have seen something in that mirror that made him forget to put the stopper back in the decanter. From where I am standing I can see everything in the room, with the inspector in the centre of the picture. Perhaps it was this fact that led to the fatal quarrel. Well, we’ll remember that, but for the moment we have our hands full; we ought to get back and piece these fragments of paper