someone have dug a tunnel underneath here and taken out the gold that way?” His tone betrayed the fact that he did not really think this was a possibility.
Mackinley shook his head impatiently. “Not a chance. The foundations are solid concrete and you can see for yourself that the metal floor is completely intact.”
Feeling slightly foolish, Hargraves straightened up and tried another tack.
“You say there was a watchman on duty all night?” he questioned. “Where can I get hold of him?”
Mackinley made a bothered movement. “It will be in the files. I’ll see you have his address and phone number.”
“Very good.” Hargraves considered a while, a tall, lean-faced man, not easily moved. “And you yourself, Mr. Mackinley. Where were you last evening?”
“Where was I?” the magnate frowned. “Does that matter?”
“With deference, sir, yes. It matters where everybody was, but you in particular, and Mr. Burton. You are the only ones who know the combination of the safe time lock.”
Mackinley seemed about to protest at what he took to be a slur on his character, then he relaxed.
“Hmmm, I see what you mean,” he admitted. “I can’t answer for Mr. Burton, of course, but I was at home all evening—and I can prove it.”
The inspector’s eyes strayed to Burton, who had just rejoined the group, leaving P.C. Harkins to study the CCTV tapes.
“Can you account for your movements last night, Mr. Burton?”
“I can, yes. I went to a political meeting at the city hall.”
“Can anyone vouch for that?” Hargraves questioned.
“Yes. I met several friends while I was there, so they’ll be able to verify the point.”
“Quite so.” Hargraves gave a disarming smile. “Don’t misunderstand me, gentlemen. I have to treat everybody alike in this matter. And I don’t think you have yet realized how extraordinarily difficult this business is.”
Mackinley said abruptly: “It’s the utter impossibility of this business that gets me down! How could all that gold be taken from this vault? How could it? And without anyone being seen or heard?”
“On the face of it, it just couldn’t happen,” the chief inspector replied. “But it did! And as long as there is a reason it’s our job to find it. I’ve already sent for fingerprint men and photographers. Once we have something to go on we’ll swing into action. Meanwhile, I shall not need to trouble you gentlemen further for the moment.”
Mackinley took the dismissal with good grace and returned to his office with Burton trailing silently behind him.
Hargraves detailed the remaining constable to join his colleague checking the closed-circuit TV recordings. “And report back to headquarters as soon as you can, and bring the recordings with you, as evidence.”
He lit a cigarette and dragged on it thoughtfully.
“Evidence?” Sergeant Brice asked dryly. “Of what, sir? Any ideas?”
“If my name were Merlin I might have. As it is, I’m completely stumped....”
Now entirely alone in the strong vault, the two men continued to stare unbelievingly at its blank, metal-lined expanse. Then Sergeant Brice spoke again.
“I’ve come up against a few things in my time, sir, but none of them was like this. There isn’t the vaguest hint of a clue, and usually there’s at least something.”
He was on the point of speaking again when the fingerprint men and photographer arrived. They came into the strongroom with something of an air of wonder.
“Morning, boys.” Hargraves gave a brief nod. “And what’s the matter with you? Never seen the inside of a strongroom before?”
“It’s not that,” the photographer said, setting up his reflex. “We’ve heard the story of the vanishing gold and we’re just beginning to wonder if somebody didn’t dream the whole thing.”
“Nobody dreamed anything,” Hargraves said grimly. “It’s all hard, relentless fact. And I’ve more than a sneaking suspicion that we’re going to be up against it. However—do your stuff.”
For a long time there was silence as powder and insufflator came into operation. Hargraves stood in deep thought during the process, juggling the problem in his mind.
When eventually the fingerprint man had finished Hargraves looked at him questioningly.
“Well? Any joy?”
“Plenty of fingerprints, chief inspector, but from the look of ’em I’d say they’re the sort of prints you’d expect to find from members of the staff. They’re in the same place—a complete jumble of them—and there isn’t a clear impression in the lot of ’em.”
“Nothing on the walls?”
“Not a thing.”
“Where are these prints you mention?”
“Around the door edges and on the lock, the sort of prints you would inevitably get by unlocking the door and then grabbing hold of it.”
“Mmm—which doesn’t tell us much. Even if there were clear prints, the law doesn’t entitle me to check the bank staff’s prints for comparison.”
Hargraves looked at the photographer. “Got your stuff, Terry?”
“Usual views,” Terry replied phlegmatically. “A strongroom has no glamour angles anyhow.”
“Okay. Leave the prints in my office when they’re done.”
The photographer and fingerprint man both nodded and then went on their way. Hargraves sighed and scratched the back of his neck.
“Frankly, sir,” Sergeant Brice said, “I just don’t know where to start. Usually there’s always something—”
“So you said before,” Hargraves remarked testily. “Well, there’s nothing more we can do here,” he decided. “We’d best get back to the office and decide our plan of campaign from there.”
As they went up the basement steps, Hargraves added:
“You had better pick up that night watchman’s address from Mackinley, and at the same time have somebody check on Burton’s alibi.”
CHAPTER THREE
At three o’clock that same afternoon Henry Anderson, the night watchman at Mackinley’s Bank, found himself closeted with Chief Inspector Hargraves and the inevitable Sergeant Brice.
Anderson was not looking immensely co-operative, either. He had been awakened from sleep in order to keep the appointment.
“This won’t keep you long, Mr. Anderson,” Hargraves
