‘Impossible, sir. For one thing, there were the chairs and tables overturned, and the broken crockery and ornaments, and then there was no sign of the razor or knife with which the crime had been committed.’

The chief constable said thoughtfully:

‘Yes, that seems conclusive. Anyone in the room?’

‘Most of the family were there, sir. Just standing round.’

Colonel Johnson said sharply:

‘Any ideas, Sugden?’

The superintendent said slowly:

‘It’s a bad business, sir. It looks to me as though one of them must have done it. I don’t see how anyone from outside could have done it and got away in time.’

‘What about the window? Closed or open?’

‘There are two windows in the room, sir. One was closed and locked. The other was open a few inches at the bottom – but it was fixed in that position by a burglar screw, and moreover, I’ve tried it and it’s stuck fast – hasn’t been opened for years, I should say. Also the wall outside is quite smooth and unbroken – no ivy or creepers. I don’t see how anyone could have left that way.’

‘How many doors in the room?’

‘Just one. The room is at the end of a passage. That door was locked on the inside. When they heard the noise of the struggle and the old man’s dying scream, and rushed upstairs, they had to break down the door to get in.’

Johnson said sharply:

‘And who was in the room?’

Superintendent Sugden replied gravely:

‘Nobody was in the room, sir, except the old man who had been killed not more than a few minutes previously.’

Colonel Johnson stared at Sugden for some minutes before he spluttered:

‘Do you mean to tell me, Superintendent, that this is one of those damned cases you get in detective stories where a man is killed in a locked room by some apparently supernatural agency?’ 

A very faint smile agitated the superintendent’s moustache as he replied gravely:

‘I do not think it’s quite as bad as that, sir.’

Colonel Johnson said:

‘Suicide. It must be suicide!’

‘Where’s the weapon, if so? No, sir, suicide won’t do.’

‘Then how did the murderer escape? By the window?’ Sugden shook his head.

‘I’ll take my oath he didn’t do that.’

‘But the door was locked, you say, on the inside.’

The superintendent nodded. He drew a key from his pocket and laid it on the table.

‘No fingerprints,’ he announced. ‘But just look at that key, sir. Take a look at it with that magnifying glass there.’

Poirot bent forward. He and Johnson examined the key together. The chief constable uttered an exclamation.

‘By Jove, I get you. Those faint scratches on the end of the barrel. You see ’em, Poirot?’

‘But yes, I see. That means, does it not, that the key was turned from outside the door – turned by means of a special implement that went through the keyhole and gripped the barrel – possibily an ordinary pair of pliers would do it.’

The superintendent nodded. 

‘It can be done all right.’

Poirot said: ‘The idea being, then, that the death would be thought to be suicide, since the door was locked and no one was in the room?’

‘That was the idea, M. Poirot, not a doubt of it, I should say.’

Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

‘But the disorder in the room! As you say, that by itself wiped out the idea of suicide. Surely the murderer would first of all have set the room to rights.’

Superintendent Sugden said: ‘But he hadn’t time, Mr Poirot. That’s the whole point. He hadn’t time. Let’s say he counted on catching the old gentleman unawares. Well, that didn’t come off. There was a struggle – a struggle heard plainly in the room underneath; and, what’s more, the old gentleman called out for help. Everyone came rushing up. The murderer’s only got time to nip out of the room and turn the key from the outside.’

‘That is true,’ Poirot admitted. ‘Your murderer, he may have made the bungle. But why, oh why, did he not at least leave the weapon? For naturally, if there is no weapon, it cannot be suicide! That was an error most grave.’

Superintendent Sugden said stolidly:

‘Criminals usually make mistakes. That’s our experience.’ 

Poirot gave a light sigh. He murmured:

‘But all the same, in spite of his mistakes, he has escaped this criminal.’

‘I don’t think he has exactly escaped.’

‘You mean he is in the house still?’

‘I don’t see where else he can be. It was an inside job.’

‘But, tout de meme,’ Poirot pointed out gently, ‘he has escaped to this extent:You do not know who he is.’

Superintendent Sugden said gently bur firmly:

‘I rather fancy that we soon shall. We haven’t done any questioning of the household yet.’

Colonel Johnson cut in:

‘Look here, Sugden, one thing strikes me. Whoever turned that key from the outside must have had some knowledge of the job. That’s to say, he probably has had criminal experience. These sort of tools aren’t easy to manage.’

‘You mean it was a professional job, sir?’

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘It does seem like it,’ the other admitted. ‘Following that up, it looks as though there were a professional thief among the servants. That would explain the diamonds being taken and the murder would follow on logically from that.’

‘Well, anything wrong with that theory?’

‘It’s what I thought myself to begin with. But it’s difficult. There are eight servants in the house; six of them are women, and of those six, five have been here for four years and more. Then there’s the butler and the footman. The butler has been here for close on forty years – bit of a record that, I should say. The footman’s local, son of the gardener, and brought up here. Don’t see very well how he can be a professional. The only other person is Mr Lee’s valet attendant. He’s comparatively new, but he was out of the house – still is – went out just before eight o’clock.’

Colonel Johnson said:

‘Have you got a list of just who exactly was in the house?’

‘Yes, sir. I got it from the butler.’ He took out his note-book. ‘Shall I read it to you?’

‘Please, Sugden.’

‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee. Mr George Lee, M.P., and his wife, Mr Henry Lee, Mr and Mrs David Lee. Miss’ – the superintendent paused a little, taking the words carefully – ‘Pilar’ – he pronounced it like a piece of architecture – ‘Estravados. Mr Stephen Farr. Then for the servants: Edward Tressilian, butler. Walter Champion, footman. Emily Reeves, cook. Queenie Jones, kitchenmaid. Gladys Spent, head housemaid. Grace Best, second housemaid. Beatrice Moscombe, third housemaid. Joan Kench, betweenmaid. Sydney Horbury, valet attendant.’ 

‘That’s the lot, eh?’

‘That’s the lot, sir.’

‘Any idea where everybody was at the time of the murder?’

‘Only roughly. As I told you, I haven’t questioned anybody yet. According to Tressilian, the gentlemen were in the dining-room still. The ladies had gone to the drawing-room. Tressilian had served coffee. According to his statement, he had just got back to his pantry when he heard a noise upstairs. It was followed by a scream. He ran out into the hall and upstairs in the wake of the others.’

Colonel Johnson said:

‘How many of the family live in the house, and who are just staying here?’

‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee live here. The others are just visiting.’

Johnson nodded.

‘Where are they all?’

‘I asked them to stay in the drawing-room until I was ready to take their statements.’

‘I see. Well, we’d better go upstairs and take a look at the doings.’

The superintendent led the way up the broad stairs and along the passage.

As he entered the room where the crime had taken place, Johnson drew a deep breath. 

‘Pretty horrible,’ he commented.

He stood for a minute studying the overturned chairs, the smashed china, and the blood-bespattered debris.