“What?” I exclaimed, surprised.
“Yes. A bit odd, isn’t it? Mr. Redding had nothing to do with it. At that time, 6:30, he was on his way to the Blue Boar with Dr. Stone in full view of the village. But there it is. Suggestive, eh? Someone walked into that empty cottage and used the telephone, who was it? That’s two queer telephone calls in one day. Makes you think there’s some connection between them. I’ll eat my hat if they weren’t both put through by the same person.”
“But with what object?”
“Well, that’s what we’ve got to find out. There seems no particular point in the second one, but there must be a point somewhere. And you see the significance? Mr. Redding’s house used to telephone from. Mr. Redding’s pistol. All throwing suspicion on Mr. Redding.”
“It would be more to the point to have put through the first call from his house,” I objected.
“Ah, but I’ve been thinking that out. What did Mr. Redding do most afternoons? He went up to Old Hall and painted Miss Protheroe. And from his cottage he’d go on his motor bicycle, passing through the North Gate. Now you see the point of the call being put through from there. The murderer is someone who didn’t know about the quarrel and that Mr. Redding wasn’t going up to Old Hall any more. ”
I reflected a moment to let the inspector’s points sink into my brain. They seemed to me logical and unavoidable.
“Were there any fingerprints on the receiver in Mr. Redding’s cottage?” I asked.
“There were not,” said the inspector bitterly. “That dratted old woman who goes and does for him had been and dusted them off yesterday