In the Teeth of the Evidence by Dorothy L. Sayers

all,’ said the obliging Mr Cobb. ‘It’s all the same to me.’ He sauntered out, smiling pleasantly.
        ‘Pah!’ said Inspector Monk. ‘There’s a nasty piece of work for you. Cheap dirt. And a liar, too. You saw that photo? (And how anybody can print such filth beats me.) Well, that hadn’t been carried round in a breast-pocket. Edges quite sharp. Fresh out of its envelope, from the look of it. Don’t mind betting you’d find the rest of the series in that fellow’s suit-case. But naturally he won’t admit it – it’s a punishable offence to sell them.’
        ‘Where was this one found?’
        ‘Under Pringle’s bed. If Cobb hadn’t got an alibi – and I’m pretty sure Bates is telling the truth, and as a matter of fact, the cook’s window looks on to the billiards-room window, and she saw them playing there until 12.15. Unless they’re all in it together, which isn’t likely. And still no sign of Pringle’s bag. But we can’t get over the evidence of that clock. You’re sure it struck twelve?’
        ‘Absolutely. I couldn’t mistake one or two strokes for twelve.’
        ‘No, of course not.’ The Inspector drummed on the table and stared into vacancy. Monty took this for a dismissal. He went back into his own bedroom. The bed had not yet been made nor the slops emptied, the slatternly routine of the Griffin having been reduced to complete chaos by the catastrophe. He threw himself into a broken-springed arm-chair, lit a cigarette and meditated.
        He had been brooding for ten minutes or so when he heard the town clock chime the quarters and strike eleven. Mechanically he waited, expecting to hear the answering melodious strike of the kitchen clock, but nothing came. Then he remembered that Monk had set the hands twenty minutes forward that morning, so that it must have struck some time since. And then he bounded to his feet with a loud exclamation.
        ‘Heavens! What a fool I am! This morning at seven the town clock struck first, and the kitchen clock immediately after. But last night I never heard the town clock strike at all . The kitchen clock must have been altered somehow or other. Unless – unless – unless, by gosh! I wonder if that could be it. Yes. Yes, it’s possible. Just before that clock struck twelve, Waters stopped snoring .’
        He ran from the room and plunged hastily into No. 8. Like his own room, it was in disorder. Like his own room, it did not appear to have been dusted for weeks. And on the night-table by Waters’s bed, which stood close against the thin partition between the two rooms, there was a mark in the dust, as though some object measuring about three inches by three and a half had stood there during the night.
        Mr Egg darted out of the room and along the corridor. He fell up the two ill-lighted steps with a curse, turned the corner and burst into the bathroom. Its window looked out upon a narrow side-street, communicating at one end with the main road and at the other with a lane that ran between warehouses. Rushing downstairs, Mr Egg caught Inspector Monk just emerging from the coffee-room.
        ‘Hold Cobb!’ panted Mr Egg. ‘I believe I’ve bust his alibi. Where’s Waters gone to? I want to put a call through to him. Quick!’
        ‘Waters said he was catching a train to Sawcaster,’ said Monk, rather astonished.
        ‘Then,’ said Monty, calling upon his professional knowledge, ‘he’ll put up at the Ring o’ Bells, and he’ll visit Hunter’s, Merriman’s and Hackett & Brown’s. We’ll get him at one place or the other.’
        After a hectic half-hour at the telephone, he ran his quarry to earth at one of Sawcaster’s leading confectionery establishments.
        ‘Waters,’ gasped Monty urgently, ‘I want you to answer some questions, old man, and you can ask me why afterwards. Never mind how silly they sound. Do you carry a travelling-clock? You do? What’s it like? Old-fashioned