“And who tells them all these things anyway? Shaving cream and things like that?”
“Probably old Mrs. Archer.”
“That old crone? She’s practically a half-wit, as far as I can make out.”
“That’s merely the camouflage of the poor,” I explained. “They take refuge behind a mask of stupidity. You’ll probably find that the old lady has all her wits about her. By the way, she seems very certain now that the pistol was in its proper place midday Thursday. What’s made her so positive all of a sudden?”
“I haven’t the least idea.”
“Do you think she’s right?”
“There again I haven’t the least idea. I don’t go round taking an inventory of my possessions every day.”
I looked round the small living-room. Every shelf and table was littered with miscellaneous articles. Lawrence lived in the midst of an artistic disarray that would have driven me quite mad.
“It’s a bit of a job finding things sometimes,” he said, observing my glance. “On the other hand, everything is handy—not tucked away.”
“Nothing is tucked away, certainly,” I agreed. “It might perhaps have been better if the pistol had been.”
“Do you know I rather expected the coroner to say something of the sort. Coroners are such asses. I expected to be censured or whatever they call it.”
“By the way,” I asked, “was it loaded?”
Lawrence shook his head.