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Page 96
Baxter saw it, but did not immediately recognize it for what it
was. What he saw, at first, was not a clew, but just a mess. He
had a tidy soul and abhorred messes, and this was a particularly
messy mess. A considerable portion of the floor was a sea of red
paint. The can from which it had flowed was lying on its
side--near the wall. He had noticed that the smell of paint had
seemed particularly pungent, but had attributed this to a new
freshet of energy on the part of Lord Emsworth. He had not
perceived that paint had been spilled.
"Pah!" said Baxter.
Then suddenly, beneath the disguise of the mess, he saw the clew.
A footmark! No less. A crimson footmark on the polished wood! It
was as clear and distinct as though it had been left there for
the purpose of assisting him. It was a feminine footmark, the
print of a slim and pointed shoe.
This perplexed Baxter. He had looked on the siege of the scarab
as an exclusively male affair. But he was not perplexed long.
What could be simpler than that Mr. Peters should have enlisted
female aid? The female of the species is more deadly than the
male. Probably she makes a better purloiner of scarabs. At any
rate, there the footprint was, unmistakably feminine.
Inspiration came to him. Aline Peters had a maid! What more
likely than that secretly she should be a hireling of Mr. Peters,
on whom he had now come to look as a man of the blackest and most
sinister character? Mr. Peters was a collector; and when a
collector makes up his mind to secure a treasure, he employs,
Baxter knew, every possible means to that end.
Baxter was now in a state of great excitement. He was hot on the
scent and his brain was working like a buzz saw in an ice box.
According to his reasoning, if Aline Peters' maid had done this
thing there should be red paint in the hall marking her retreat,
and possibly a faint stain on the stairs leading to the servants'
bedrooms.
He hastened from the museum and subjected the hall to a keen
scrutiny. Yes; there was red paint on the carpet. He passed
through the green-baize door and examined the stairs. On the
bottom step there was a faint but conclusive stain of crimson!
He was wondering how best to follow up this clew when he
perceived Ashe coming down the stairs. Ashe, like Baxter, and as
the result of a night disturbed by anxious thoughts, had also
overslept himself.
There are moments when the giddy excitement of being right on the
trail causes the amateur--or Watsonian--detective to be
incautious. If Baxter had been wise he would have achieved his
object--the getting a glimpse of Joan's shoes--by a devious and
snaky route. As it was, zeal getting the better of prudence, he
rushed straight on. His early suspicion of Ashe had been
temporarily obscured. Whatever Ashe's claims to be a suspect, it
had not been his footprint Baxter had seen in the museum.
"Here, you!" said the Efficient Baxter excitedly.
"Sir?"
"The shoes!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I wish to see the servants' shoes. Where are they?"
"I expect they have them on, sir."
"Yesterday's shoes, man--yesterday's shoes. Where are they?"
"Where are the shoes of yesteryear?" murmured Ashe. "I should say
at a venture, sir, that they would be in a large basket somewhere
near the kitchen. Our genial knife-and-shoe boy collects them, I
believe, at early dawn."
"Would they have been cleaned yet?"
"If I know the lad, sir--no."
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