Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“The dropper,” said Harper, “had a rubber top.”

“It’d float,” said Fox.

“He didn’t go there, Br’er Fox. Mrs. Ives would have seen him. And there isn’t one downstairs. It’s the garage or the yard. Hullo, here’s Oates!”

Oates came in. He was slightly flushed with triumph.

“Well?” said Harper.

“In accordance with instructions, sir,” said Oates, “I proceeded to search the premises—”

“A truce to these vain repetitions,” began Colonel Brammington with some violence.

“Never mind all that, Oates,” said Harper. “Have you found anything?”

“Smashed glass, sir. Powdered to scatters and under a bit of sacking. The sacking’s been newly shifted, sir.”

“We’ll look at it,” said Alleyn. “Anything else?”

“I searched the car, sir, without success. I noted she was low in water, sir, and I took the liberty of filling her up. When she was full, sir, this come up to the top.”

He opened his great hand.

Lying on the palm was a small wet India-rubber cap such as is used on a chemist’s lotion-dropper, for the eye or ear.

“Good-bye conjecture,” said Alleyn, “and welcome fact.”

The End