Hadn’t the nerve to go back to the inn. He makes for the station, rings up from there ‘ ‘Why?’ said Poirot softly.
I jumped at the interruption. The little man was leaning forward. His eyes shone with a queer green light.
For a moment Inspector Raglan was taken aback by the question.
‘It’s difficult to say exactly why he did that,’ he said at last. ‘But murderers do funny things. You’d know that if you were in the police force. The cleverest of them make stupid mistakes sometimes. But come along and I’ll show you those footprints.’ We followed him round the corner of the terrace to the study window. At a word from Raglan a police constable produced the shoes which had been obtained from the local inn.
The inspector laid them over the marks.
‘They’re the same,’ he said confidently. ‘That is to say, they’re not the same pair that actually made these prints. He went away in those. This is a pair just like them, but older see how the studs are worn down?’ ‘Surely a great many people wear shoes with rubber studs in them?’ asked Poirot.
‘That’s so, of course,’ said the inspector. ‘I shouldn’t put so much stress on the footmarks if it wasn’t for everything else.’ ‘A very foolish young man. Captain Ralph Paton,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘To leave so much evidence of his presence.’ ‘Ah! well,’ said the inspector, ‘it was a dry, fine night, you know. He left no prints on the terrace or on the gravelled path. But, unluckily for him, a spring must have welled up just lately at the end of the path from the drive. See here.’ A small gravelled path joined the terrace a few feet away.
In one spot, a few yards from its termination, the ground was wet and boggy. Crossing this wet place there were again the marks of footsteps, and amongst them the shoes with rubber studs.
Poirot followed the path on a little way, the inspector by his side.
‘You noticed the women’s footprints?’ he said suddenly.
The inspector laughed.
‘Naturally. But several different women have walked this way – and men as well. It’s a regular short cut to the house, you see. It would be impossible to sort out all the footsteps.
After all, it’s the ones on the window-sill that are really important.’ Poirot nodded.
‘It’s no good going farther,’ said the inspector, as we came in view of the drive. ‘It’s all gravelled again here, and hard as it can be.’ Again Poirot nodded, but his eyes were fixed on a small garden house – a kind of superior summer-house. It was a little to the left of the path ahead of us, and a gravelled walk ran up to it.
Poirot lingered about until the inspector had gone back towards the house. Then he looked at me.
‘You must have indeed been sent from the good God to replace my friend Hastings,’ he said, with a twinkle. ‘I observe that you do not quit my side. How say you. Doctor Sheppard, shall we investigate that summer-house? It interests me.’ He went up to the door and opened it. Inside, the place was almost dark. There were.one or two rustic seats, a croquet set, and some folded deck-chairs.
I was startled to observe my new friend. He had dropped to his hands and knees and was crawling about the floor.
Every now and then he shook his head as though not satisfied. Finally, he sat back on his heels.
‘Nothing,’ he murmured. ‘Well, perhaps it was not to be expected. But it would have meant so much ‘ He broke off, stiffening all over. Then he stretched out his hand to one of the rustic chairs. He detached something from one side of it.
‘What is it?’ I cried. ‘What have you found?’ He smiled, unclosing his hand so that I should see what lay in the palm of it. A scrap of stiff white cambric.
I took it from him, looked at it curiously, and then handed it back.
‘What do you make of it, eh, my friend?’ he asked, eyeing me keenly.
‘A scrap torn from a handkerchief,’ I suggested, shrugging my shoulders.