The Polo Ground Mystery by Robin Forsythe

lot you’ve missed that I shall be able to discover. I really must help you to regain some of your lost prestige. I know how they’ll write it up for the Daily Report : ‘Smart piece of detective work by Inspector Heather, who distinguished himself some years ago, etc.,’ and not a word about your old pal, Anthony Vereker.”
    â€œNever mind, Mr. Vereker. You must put on the injured air of an unrecognized genius and feel terribly superior. Genius is its own reward when you’ve got no virtue to boast of!”
    The inspector indulged in a hearty laugh at his own joke.
    â€œNice cos lettuce that, Heather. I can recommend it. There’s one thing that’s troubling me a lot. I suppose you’re quite unable to say how many shots were fired from Mr. Armadale’s pistol by the number of cartridges left in the magazine? Leave out of the discussion for the time being the evidence of the reports that were heard.”
    â€œThat’s always impossible unless you know the number of cartridges that were in the magazine before any were fired. Take this automatic, for example”—here the inspector produced a Colt .45 from his pocket—“the magazine can take any number of cartridges up to seven. They’re simply loaded into the magazine against a spring clip, and the magazine is inserted in the stock of the pistol. The cartridges are released into the barrel, the first one by hand, the remainder automatically as each shot is fired. It’s an ingenious bit of machinery, and quite different in action from the ordinary revolver.”
    â€œThanks, inspector, but I know a lot about automatic pistols. The point I wish to make is that you’ve no idea how many cartridges were originally in the magazine?”
    â€œThere were six live cartridges in the magazine of Mr. Armadale’s pistol when I took charge of it. It’s reasonable to surmise that there were originally seven and that only one shot was fired by him.”
    â€œI don’t like the assurance of that ‘fired by him,’” remarked Vereker, pouring himself out another cup of tea.
    For some moments the inspector was silent over the mastication of a generous mouthful of home-made cake.
    â€œYou have an idea that some one may have shot him with his own pistol and then thrust it in his hand?” he asked at length.
    â€œIt seems a likely supposition; it would account for only two reports. When a man commits suicide with a revolver or pistol he usually relaxes his grasp of the weapon, and it is nearly always found at some little distance from the body.”
    â€œThere is that alternative, and yet a missing cartridge case to explain away. But, Lord bless us, Mr. Vereker, we could go building variations on the theme till doomsday. In the meantime—”
    â€œWe’ll go up and have a look at that polo ground,” interrupted Vereker, rising. “There’s one point that I had nearly forgotten. What’s this yarn about Mr. Armadale as he was dying murmuring the word ‘Murder’ to Collyer? What do you make of it?”
    â€œWe’ve only got Collyer’s word for it. It’s so easy to be wrong on such a point,” replied the inspector gravely.
    â€œOnly too easy, inspector. It may have been the word ‘Mother.’ It’s a strange thing that proud, self-reliant man in the last great crisis of death will sometimes unconsciously call for help to her who gave him birth and who was his comfort through so great a part of his growing years. In the mystery of existence, womanhood seems to be imbued with terrible significance!”
    â€œIt’s nearly opening time,” interrupted the inspector, noisily clearing his throat. “I think we’d better be going.”
    â€œKnowing ourselves very thoroughly, inspector, I quite agree. I see you’re as sentimental as ever!”

Chapter Four
    On leaving the “Silver Pear Tree” the