Part 3 (1/2)
”I left him at the kennels.”
”Ah!”
The policeman was momentarily nonplussed. He had formed a theory in which Jenkins, that young Territorial spark, figured either as a fool or a criminal.
”What's the use of holding a sort of inquiry on the doorstep?” broke in Hilton Fenley shrilly. His utterance was nearly hysterical.
Farrow's judicial calm appeared to stir him to frenzy. He clamored for action, for zealous scouting, and this orderly investigation by mere words was absolutely maddening.
”I'm not wastin' time, sir,” said Farrow respectfully. ”It's as certain as anything can be that the murderer, if murder has been done, has not got away by either of the gates.”
”If murder has been done!” cried Fenley. ”What do you mean? Go and look at my poor father's corpse----”
”Of course, Mr. Fenley is dead, sir, an' sorry I am to hear of it; but the affair may turn out to be an accident.”
”Accident! Farrow, you're talking like an idiot. A man is shot dead at his own front door, in a house standing in the midst of a big estate, and you tell me it's an accident!”
”No, sir. I on'y mentioned that on the off chance. Queer things do happen, an' one shouldn't lose sight of that fact just because it's unusual. Now, sir, with your permission, I want Brodie, an' Smith, an'
all the men servants you can spare for the next half hour.”
”Why?”
”Brodie can motor to the Inspector's office, an' tell him wot he knows, stoppin' on the way to send Jenkins here. Some of us must search the woods thoroughly, while others watch the open park, to make sure no one escapes without bein' seen. It's my firm belief that the man who fired that rifle is still hidin' among those trees. He may be sneakin' off now, but we'd see him if we're quick in reachin' the other side. Will you do as I ask, sir?”
Farrow was already in motion when Fenley's dazed mind recalled something the policeman ought to know.
”I've telephoned to Scotland Yard half an hour ago,” he said.
”That's all right, sir. The main thing now is to search every inch of the woods. If nothing else, we may find footprints.”
”And make plenty of new ones.”
”Not if the helpers do as I tell 'em, sir.”
”I can't argue. I'm not fit for it. Still, some instinct warns me you are not adopting the best course. I think you ought to go in the car and put the police into combined action.”
”What are they to do, sir? The murderer won't carry a rifle through the village, or along the open road. I fancy we'll come across the weapon itself in the wood. Besides, the Inspector will do all that is necessary when Brodie sees him. Reelly, sir, I _know_ I'm right.”
”But should that artist be questioned?”
”Of course he will, sir. He won't run away. If he does, we'll soon nab him. He's been stayin' at the White Horse Inn the last two days, an'
is quite a nice-spoken young gentleman. Why should _he_ want to shoot Mr. Fenley?”
”He is annoyed with my father, for one thing.”
”Eh? Wot, sir?”
Farrow, hitherto eager to be off on the hunt, stopped as if he heard a statement of real importance.
Hilton Fenley pressed a hand to his eyes.