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wholesomely informative. Let me read it to you. ‘Six murders have been committed during the first nine months of this year and the six murderers are still at large. Scotland Yard detectives were concerned in four of these cases.’”
    â€œSounds as if we committed them,” interrupted the inspector testily.
    â€œâ€˜Nine murders took place last year and are marked in the police records as “undiscovered,”’” continued Vereker relentlessly. “‘Scotland Yard inquired into seven of those crimes. A plain fact must be stated—Scotland Yard, the most highly organized police department in the world, has lost the habit of catching murderers.’”
    â€œCatching murderers is an art, not a habit, Mr. Vereker, with all due respect to the Daily Express correspondent.”
    â€œPerhaps you’re right, inspector. But what are you going to do about it?”
    â€œCatch ’em in future if we can. In the art of criminal investigation, just as in your job—if you can call it a job—of painting, there’s a power of luck. Only you can burn your duds while ours are put on record for critical Press correspondents to chuckle over,” replied the inspector, with a show of warmth.
    â€œNeatly expressed, inspector, but only partially true. The critical Press correspondents generally manage to chuckle even over our successes. We have that disadvantage. But let’s get to the Armadale case. You’ve been over the ground and got the general hang of things. I know only what I’ve gathered from the news—fragmentary, uncertain, inconclusive stuff—poor foundations to build on. Of course it was a murder and not suicide.”
    â€œOh!” said the inspector, looking up with his slow, inquisitive glance. “How did you tumble to that?” 
    â€œJust a guess,” replied Vereker lazily, “an idle guess. I don’t think a man would commit suicide by shooting himself in the stomach. There were two bullet wounds: one in the head and one in the abdomen, I believe?”
    â€œThat’s true, and the guess is quite a good one, but only a guess. If a man’s determined to do himself in there’s no saying how he’ll do it if his mind is sufficiently worked up. A man has committed suicide by beating his head almost to a pulp with a hammer; another by driving a chisel several times into his skull. At first glance these actual cases looked like particularly brutal murders, and yet they were proved without any doubt to have been suicides.”
    â€œAmazing! What do you think about it yourself, Heather?”
    â€œLike you, I’ve guessed it’s murder. But it’s too early in the day to say much more. For instance, suppose Mr. Armadale wished it to be thought that he had been murdered. There have been hidden reasons for such a trick on several previous occasions. It might be done to avoid trouble over insurance money; to incriminate some innocent person in a mad spirit of revenge.”
    â€œQuite so, but there’s something fishy about those two wounds—one in the abdomen, the other in the right temple. It was in the right temple, wasn’t it?”
    â€œThat’s correct, and Mr. Armadale was gripping his Colt .45 automatic pistol in his left hand. What’s the bright amateur deduction from that, Mr. Vereker?” asked the inspector, with his heavy, good-natured face breaking into a smile.
    â€œI thought that would be the first, dull, official question, inspector. I guess it puzzled you immensely. I thrashed it out with myself this morning while I was hunting for my back collar-stud. As you’ve got a flying start of me, I must ask you a few questions. In the first place, was Mr. Sutton’s left thumb on the trigger?”
    â€œNo, there was neither digit nor thumb within the trigger guard.”
    â€œDigit is luscious, inspector! You ought to be on the Daily Report . We’ll