The Ginger Cat Mystery by Robin Forsythe Page A

steps. I’ll let you see the photographs that have been taken later.”
    At this piece of information Vereker turned and was about to descend the first half-flight of steps.
    â€œNo, you needn’t go down,” said the inspector, “I’ve examined every inch of that first half-flight and there’s no further stain to be found.”
    â€œNone in the main hall?” asked Vereker.
    â€œNot a drop. As far as I can see, he must have been holding his handkerchief to the wound for he certainly ascended the stairs after being shot.”
    â€œYou inferred that from the shape of the drops of blood on the steps; they splashed forward in the direction of his ascent.”
    â€œMr. Vereker, you’re becoming as orthodox as a policeman,” remarked Heather with a smile. “You’ll have to give up the amateur status and lose that popular halo you wear with such grace.”
    â€œNow, now, Heather, you can’t hoodwink me. You’re just talking to side-track me. Here’s where my knowledge of psychology has you beaten. Confess now that you’re hiding the fact that the entrance hall floor was washed by one of the maids on the morning of the discovery of the murder, yes, and washed unfortunately before the police arrived and gave instructions that there must be no further cleaning of the house till further orders.”
    â€œYou’ve guessed right; it was a bright shot, Mr. Vereker. The hall lino, which is an imitation of a red-tiled floor, is washed every morning first thing. The maid carried out her duties as usual yesterday morning. Priceless clues may have vanished and our work doubled by the accident for it was an accident in a way. These little things are sent to try us, I suppose.”
    â€œBy Jove, but that’s really tragic!” soliloquized Vereker with an ironic smile and ascended the second half-flight of steps on to the first-storey corridor landing.
    â€œHere’s where the body lay,” said Heather, “and that dark stain on the carpet is where a pool of blood flowed from the wound.”
    â€œHe ran up the stairs and collapsed here. Let me see the photographs you’ve got tucked away in your pocket, Heather.”
    Heather chuckled and extracting some photographic prints from a note-case handed them to Vereker. The latter immediately switched on an electric light at the head of the stairs for, owing to the length of the corridor, the natural lighting was bad. He carefully examined the prints and handed them back to the inspector without comment.
    â€œWhat d’you make of it, Mr. Vereker?” asked the officer seriously.
    â€œStrange that he’s lying on his back, Heather. Can you explain?”
    â€œHe fell forward and turned over or he may have turned in falling, for he was bearing to his left towards his bedroom and would be slightly off his dead balance.”
    â€œThat’s possible, I suppose, but it strikes me as peculiar, very peculiar and most unlikely. But tell me, Heather, what was the man doing in a lounge suit at that time of night? He had dressed for dinner, went to bed at eleven and was dead at twelve or one o’clock in a complete change of clothes. He must have gone out. Could he let himself in?”
    â€œOnly if he had let himself out. If he had gone out before closing time he’d have left instructions with one of the servants for the front door to be left unlocked. You haven’t examined the front door yet?”
    â€œNo. Anything peculiar?”
    â€œThe lock is inside the door. Nearly all the locks in the house are these old-fashioned exposed affairs. Then when the front door—it is in reality a double door with glass panes—is closed, a pair of folding shutters are drawn out from the wall on each side and are made secure with an iron fastening bar.”
    â€œThen he didn’t go out, after all?”
    â€œApparently not, but we mustn’t jump to conclusions just