Joining his superior outside the gate, Sergeant Hemingway said: "Nothing much to be made of it my end. Did you shake the fair Helen?"
"No. She's sticking to it that her story's true. She's bound to, of course. I didn't expect her to go back on it. What I did want to do - and what I rather fancy I succeeded in doing - was to frighten her. Did you get anything out of the servants?"
"Precious little. The butler saw young Neville walking off down the drive at about 12.30 that night, which makes it look as though what he told me was true. Otherwise, I wasted my time. Old-fashioned sort of servants: been employed there several years, seem to be fond of both master and mistress, and aren't talking. Come to think of it, it's a pity there aren't more like them - though not from our point of view. Did you get the impression Mrs. North was working in cahoots with her husband, or what?"
"I don't know. Her sister warned her not to answer me until she'd seen her solicitor, so I didn't press the matter."Just about what that dame with the eyeglass would do!" remarked the Sergeant disapprovingly. "In my young days women didn't know anything about such things. I don't believe in all this emancipation. It isn't natural. What are we going to do now? Get after young Neville?"
"No. I'm going back to the police station. It's no use my tackling Neville. I haven't anything against him, except the state of his bank overdraft, and he knows it. I'm hoping Glass may have managed to make contact with that postman. As far as I can see, the two people we've got to get hold of are North and Carpenter. I'll put a call through to North's office, and find out if he's there, or has been there. With any luck Jevons has been able to ferret out some more information about Angela Angel. I put him on to that first thing this morning. Which reminds me that there's one thing I want to pick up, and that's a photograph of Fletcher. We'll call in at Greystones on our way, and borrow one from his sister. I take it no photograph was found amongst Angela Angel's possessions?"
"Only a few of stage pals, and one of Charlie Carpenter. I asked Jimmy Gale particularly, but he was positive there wasn't one of the man who'd been keeping her. Few flies on the late Ernest. Think Angela's an important factor, Chief?"
Hannasyde did not answer for a moment. As they turned in at the front gate of Greystones, he said: "I hardly know. If North's our man, I should say not. But in some way or other she seems to be linked up with the case. It won't do any harm to see what we can find out about her."
He rang the front-door bell, and in a few minutes the door was opened by Simmons, who, however, told them that his mistress had gone out. Hannasyde was about to ask him if he could produce a photograph of his master when Neville strayed into the hall from a room overlooking the drive, and said with his shy, slow smile: "How lovely for me! I was getting so tired of my own company, and I daren't go out in case you're having me watched. My aunt wouldn't like it if I became conspicuous. But where's the Comic Strip? You don't mean to tell me you haven't brought him?"
The Sergeant put up a hand to his mouth. Neville's large eyes reproached him. "You can't like me as much as I thought you did," he said, softly slurring his words. "I've learnt two new bits to say to him, and I'm sure I shan't be able to carry them in my head much longer."
The Sergeant had to fight against a desire to ask what the new bits might be. He said: 'Ah, I daresay, sir!" in a non-committal tone.
Young Mr. Fletcher, who seemed to have an uncanny knack of reading people's thoughts, said confidentially: "I know you want me to tell you what they are. I would - though you oughtn't to try and pick my brains, you know - if it weren't for the Superintendent's being with you. You understand what I mean: they're awfully broad - not to say vulgar."
The Sergeant cast an imploring glance at his superior, who said with an unmoved countenance: "You can tell the Sergeant some other time, Mr. Fletcher. I called in the hope of seeing your aunt, but perhaps you can help me in her stead. Have you a photograph of your uncle which you could let me borrow for a few days?"
"Oh no!" said Neville. "I mean, I haven't. But if I had I wouldn't lend it to you: I'd give it to you."
"Extremely kind of you, but -'
"Well, it isn't really," Neville explained, "because I hate photographs. I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll give you the one that stands on a table all to itself in the drawing-room. As a matter of fact, I was wondering what next I could do to annoy my aunt."
"I have no wish to annoy Miss Fletcher. Isn't there some other -'
"No, but I have," said Neville in his gentle way. "I shan't tell her I gave it to you, and then she'll organise a search for it. That will be uncomfortable, of course, but since I started to do good turns I've found that they invariably entail a certain amount of self-immolation, which has a very degrading effect on the character." Talking all the time, he had led the way into the drawingroom, where, as he had described, a large studio portrait of his uncle stood in solitary state upon an incidental table. He stopped in front of it, and murmured: "Isn't it a treat?"
"I don't want to borrow a photograph which Miss Fletcher obviously values," said Hannasyde somewhat testily. "Surely there must be another somewhere."
"Oh, there is, beside my aunt's bed! But I shan't let you have that, because it wouldn't suit my book. There's an almost indistinguishable but certainly existent line drawn between the counter and the added irritant."
"I'm bothered if I know what you're talking about, sir!" said the Sergeant, unable to contain himself. "Nice way to treat your poor aunt!"
The flickering gaze rested on his face for an instant. "Yes, isn't it? Will you have it with or without frame, Superintendent?"
"Without, please," Hannasyde replied, looking at him a little curiously. "I think I understand. Your methods are slightly original, aren't they?"
"I'm so glad you didn't say eccentric," said Neville, extracting the portrait from its frame. "I hate being called eccentric. Term employed by mediocre minds to describe pure rationalism. Now I will hide the frame, and bribe Simmons to keep his mouth shut. Practically the only advantage I have yet discovered in inheriting a fortune is the ability it confers on one to exercise the unholy power of bribery."
"And then I suppose you'll join in the search for it?" said the Sergeant, torn between disapproval and amusement.
"No, that would savour strongly of hypocrisy," answered Neville serenely. "There you are, Superintendent. I shan't invite you to stay and have tea, because my aunt might come back."
Once outside the house, the Sergeant said: "Came over me in a flash! Do you know what that silly smile of his makes me think of, Super?"
"No, what?"
"That picture people make such a fuss about, though why I've never been able to make out. Pie-faced creature, with a nasty, sly smile."
"The Mona Lisa!" Hannasyde laughed suddenly. "Yes, I see what you mean. Odd young man. I can't make up my mind about him at all."
"There are times," said the Sergeant, "when I'd ask nothing better than to be able to pin this murder on to him. However, I'm bound to say it isn't, to my way of thinking, arty enough for him. My lord would go all out for something pretty subtle, if you ask me."
"I shouldn't be at all surprised if you're right," said Hannasyde.
In another few minutes they boarded an omnibus which set them down within a stone's throw of the police station. PC Glass had not returned from his quest, and Hannasyde, having ascertained over the telephone that North was not at his office, put through a call to Scotland Yard, and asked whether Inspector Jevons had come in. He was soon connected with the Inspector, who had, however, little to report. He had discovered the block of flats in which her unknown protector had installed Angela Angel, but her apartment had been rented by a man calling himself Smith. The hall porter was sure he would recognise the gentleman if he saw him again, and described him as being slim, dark, and very well dressed.
Hannasyde glanced at his watch, and decided to return to London, leaving the Sergeant to pick up any information that Glass might bring in. He appointed a meeting-time at Headquarters, and went off, bearing the portrait of Fletcher with him.
It was some little while before Glass presented himself, and when he did arrive he appeared to be suffering from strong indignation. He no sooner set eyes on the Sergeant than he said sternly: 'Whoso causeth the righteous to go astray in an evil way, he shall fall himself into his own pit!"
"What on earth's the matter with you?" said the Sergeant. "You can't have been on the jag, because the pubs aren't open yet."
"Let them be ashamed and confounded together that seek after my soul to destroy it! I will turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity; I am like a green olive tree in the house of the Lord."
"Look here, what the devil have you been up to?" demanded the Sergeant.
Glass fixed him with a sombre glare. "Mine eyes have beheld lewdness, and a Babylonish woman!" he announced.
"Where?" asked the Sergeant, suddenly interested.
"In a glittering house of corruption I have seen these things. I have escaped from an horrible pit."
"If you mean what I think you do, all I can say is that I'm ashamed of you," said the Sergeant severely. "What were you doing in that kind of a house, I'd like to know? The Chief told you to find the postman; instead of obeying orders you go and -'
"I have done as I was bidden. I have found him though my feet were led in the path of destruction."
"Now, look here, my lad, that's quite enough. There's no need to go nuts over the postman's morals. It doesn't matter to you where you found him, as long as you did find him - though I must say I'd no idea postmen got up to those kinds of larks in the suburbs. Did you get his evidence?"
"I summoned him forth from that place of sin, yes, and his wife also -'
"What?" exclaimed the Sergeant. "Here, where was the poor fellow?"
"In a playhouse, which is an habitation of the devil."
"Do you mean to tell me all this song and dance is because the postman took his wife to the pictures in his off time?" gasped the Sergeant. "It's my belief you're crazy! Now, cut it out, and let's get down to brass tacks!
Did he see Mrs. North on the night of the murder, or did he not?"
"I have roared by reason of the disquietness of my heart," apologised Glass, with a groan. "But I will make my report." He produced a notebook, and with a bewilderingly sudden change from zeal to officialdom, read in a toneless voice: "On the night of 17 June, having cleared the box at the corner of Glynne Road at 10.00 p.m. precisely, the postman, by name Horace Smart, of 14 Astley Villas, Marley, mounted his bicycle, and proceeded in an easterly direction, passing the gates of Greystones. Smart states he saw a woman walking down the drive."
"Did he notice whether she was carrying anything?"
"He states that she carried nothing, that when he saw her she had one hand raised to hold her hair against the breeze. With the other she held up the skirts of her dress."
"Did he recognise -'The Sergeant broke off to answer the telephone, which at that moment interrupted him. "Scotland Yard? Right! Put 'em through Hullo? Hemingway speaking."
"We've got Carpenter for you," announced a voice at the other end of the line.
"You have?" said the Sergeant incredulously. "Nice work! Where is he?"
"We don't know that, but we can tell you where he will be this evening. Got it through Light-Fingered Alec, who says Carpenter's hanging out in a basement room at 43 Barnsley Street, W. That's -'
"Half a shake!" said the Sergeant, reaching for a pencil. "43 Barnsley Street, W. - basement room. Where is Barnsley Street?"
"I'm telling you. You know the Glassmere Road? Well, Barnsley Street leads out of it into Letchley Gardens."
"Letchley Gardens? Classy address for friend Carpenter."
"It would be if he lived there, but he doesn't. Barnsley Street's not so hot. No. 43 looks like a lodging-house. Do you want Carpenter pulled in?"
"I thought you said you didn't know where he was?"
"We don't, but his landlady might."
The Sergeant thought for a moment, and then said: "No. You never know, and we don't want to give him warning we're on to him. He'll keep till he gets home. I'm meeting the Superintendent at the Yard when I get through here. We'll go along to this Barnsley Street then, and catch his lordship unawares."
"Well, from what Light-Fingered Alec told Fenton, you won't find him till latish. He's got a job in some restaurant. Anything else we can do for you?"
"Not that I know of. If he's working in a restaurant, the Chief may decide to pick him up in the morning. Anyway, I'll be seeing you. So long!" He replaced the receiver, and said with satisfaction: "Well, now we are getting on, and no mistake!" He found that Glass was still waiting, open notebook in hand, and his eyes fixed on his face, and said: "Oh yes, you! What was I saying?"
"You were about to ask me whether the man Smart recognised the woman he saw. And I answer you, No. He rode upon the other side of the road, and saw but the figure of a female, her robe caught up in one hand, the other smoothing her hair, which the breeze ruffled."
"Oh well, there doesn't seem to be much doubt it was Mrs. North, anyway!" said the Sergeant. He collected his papers together and got up. The Constable was apparently still brooding over the experience through which he had passed, for he said with a shudder: "The lamp of the wicked shall be put out: but the tabernacle of the righteous shall flourish."
"I daresay," agreed the Sergeant, bestowing his papers in his case. "But if the picture you saw was wicked enough to set you off like this, all I can say is I wish I'd seen it. I've never struck a really hot one in my life - not what I call hot, that is."
"How long shall thy vain thoughts lodge within thee?" demanded Glass. "I tell you, when the wicked perish there is shouting!"
"You go off home, and treat yourself to a nice aspirin," recommended the Sergeant. "I've had enough of you for one day."
"I will go," Glass replied, restoring his notebook to his pocket. "I am tossed up and down as the locust."
The Sergeant deigned no reply, but walked out of the office. Later, when he met Superintendent Hannasyde in his room at Scotland Yard, he said: "You've properly put your foot into it now, Chief. Turned poor old Glass into a locust, that's what you've done. You never heard such a commotion in your life!"
"What on earth - ?"
"Led his feet into a horrible pit," said the Sergeant with unction. "I've sent him off duty to get over it."
"What are you talking about?" said Hannasyde impatiently. "If you'd forget Glass and attend to this case -'
"Forget him! I wish I could! Thanks to you, he's been to the pictures, and what he's got to say about it would make your hair stand on end. However, he found the postman, and Mrs. North was seen about ten o'clock - though not recognised - and she was not carrying anything. So at any rate she was speaking the truth about the time she left Greystones. You heard about Carpenter?"
"Yes, I've been talking to Fenton about that. From what he could pick up from this Light-Fingered Alec of his, it looks as though we ought to find Carpenter at home any time after 9.30 p.m. We'll drop round to see him, Skipper."
The Sergeant nodded. "Right you are. What time?"
"Oh! Give him half-an-hour's law, just to be sure of catching him. I'll meet you at the corner of Glassmere Road and Barnsley Street at 10.00 p.m. Meanwhile, you'll like to hear that the hall porter at Chumley Mansions recognised Fletcher's photograph as soon as I showed it to him. He was "Smith" all right."
"Well, we never had much doubt, did we?" said the Sergeant. "Was he able to tell you anything more?"
"Nothing of much use to us. Like everyone else who came into contact with Fletcher, he seems to have found him invariably pleasant. He knows nothing more about the girl than he told Gale at the time of her death."
"I must say it looks as though Angela Angel's suicide and the late Ernest's murder do hang together," pondered the Sergeant. "But I'm damned if I see where North fits into it, if they do."
"We shall probably know more when we've heard what Carpenter has to say," replied Hannasyde.
"What you might call the key to the whole mystery," agreed the Sergeant.
He arrived a little before ten o'clock at the appointed rendezvous that evening, and found Barnsley Street to be a drab road connecting the main thoroughfare of Glassmere Road with the prim respectability of Letchley Gardens. Glassmere Road, which the Sergeant knew well, was a busy street, and at the corner of Barosley Street, close to an omnibus stopping-place, was a coffeestall. The Sergeant bought himself a cup of coffee, and entered into idle chat with the proprietor. He was soon joined by Hannasyde, who came walking along the Glassmere Road from an Underground Railway Station a few hundred yards distant.
"Evening," Hannasyde said, nodding to the coffee-stall proprietor. "Not much of a pitch, this, is it?"
"Not bad," replied the man. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I get folks coming out of the Regal Cinema later on. Of course, it's quiet now, but then, it's early. Can't complain."
The Sergeant pushed his empty cup and saucer across the counter, bade the man a cheerful good-night, and strolled away with his superior.
The sky was overcast, and although the daylight had not yet failed entirely, it was growing dark. Barnsley Street, curling round in a half-circle towards Letchley Gardens, was ill lit, a depressing street lined with thin, drab houses. No. 43 was discovered midway down it. A card in the window on the ground-floor advertised Apartments, and a shallow flight of six steps led up to the front door. A light was burning at the top of the house, but the basement was in darkness. "Looks as though we're too early," remarked the Sergeant, pulling the bellknob. "Of course, if he's got a job at a really swell restaurant, it isn't likely he'd be back yet."
"We can but try," Hannasyde replied.
After an interval, the Sergeant pulled the bell again. He was about to pull it a third time when a light appeared in the fanlight over the door, and slip-shod feet were heard approaching inside the house.
The door was opened by a stout lady of disagreeable aspect, who held it slightly ajar, and said pugnaciously: "Well? What do you want? If you've come about lodgings, I'm full up."
"If I had, that would break my heart," said the Sergeant instantly. "I don't know when I've taken such a fancy to anyone as I have to you. Came over me the instant I laid eyes on you."
"I don't want none of your sauce," responded the lady, eyeing him with acute dislike.
"Well, tell me this: is Mr. Carpenter in?"
"If it's him you want, why don't you go down the area steps? Pealing the bell, and having me down from the top of the house, as though I'd nothing better to do than run up and down stairs the whole evening!"
"Run?" said the Sergeant. "Go on! You couldn't! Now, put a sock in it, and let's have a real heart to heart. Is Charlie Carpenter in?"
She said grudgingly: "Yes, he's in. If you want him, you can go down and knock on his door."
"Thank you for nothing," said the Sergeant. "You let me see this running act of yours. You and me will trip downstairs, and you'll do the knocking, after which you'll tell Mr. Charlie Carpenter to shut his eyes and open the door, and see what the fairies have brought him."
"Oh, I will, will I?" said the lady, bristling. "And who says so?"
The Sergeant produced his card, and showed it to her.
"That's the name, Clara, but if you like you can call me Willy, seeing that you're so stuck on me. Come on, now, get a move on!"
She read the card painstakingly, and seemed to feel an increased aversion from him. "I'm a respectable woman, and I don't want any busies nosing round my house, nor there's no reason why I should have them what's more. If that young fellow's been up to any tricks, it's no business of mine, and so I'll have you know!"
"Well, now that I know it, let's get going," said the Sergeant.
She led the way, grumbling under her breath, to the top of the basement stairs. Hannasyde nodded to the Sergeant, and himself remained on the doorstep, keeping a strategic eye on the area.
No reply was made to the landlady's imperative knock on the door of the basement room, nor was any sound audible.
"Funny. He don't generally go to bed early," remarked the landlady, renewing her assault upon the door. "I daresay he's gone out again. Well, I hope you're satisfied, that's all."
Just a moment, sister!" said the Sergeant, pushing her aside. "No objection to my having a look round, have you?"
He turned the handle as he spoke. The door opened, and he groped for the light-switch. "Looks as though you're right," he remarked, stepping into the room.
But the landlady was not right. Charlie Carpenter had not gone out. He was lying fully dressed across the bed that was pushed against the wall opposite the door, and he was, as the Sergeant saw at a glance, dead.
The landlady, peeping over the Sergeant's shoulder, gave a piercing shriek, and cowered away from the door into the gloom of the passage.
"Shut up!" said the Sergeant curtly. He walked across the room, and bent over the tumbled body, feeling its hands. They were quite warm.
Hannasyde's voice sounded on the stairs. "Anything wrong, Hemingway?" he called.
The Sergeant went to the door. "We're just a bit too late, Chief, that's what's wrong," he said. "You come and see."
Hannasyde descended the stairs, cast one shrewd glance at the landlady's pallid countenance, and strode into the front room.
The Sergeant was standing beside the bed, his bright eyes dispassionately surveying the dead man. At Hannasyde's involuntary exclamation, he looked up. "Something we weren't expecting," he remarked.
Hannasyde bent over the body, his face very grim. Carpenter had been killed as Ernest Fletcher had been killed, but whereas Fletcher had apparently been taken unawares, some struggle had taken place in this dingy basement room. A chair had been overturned, a mat rucked up, and above the dead man's crumpled collar a bruise on his throat showed dark on the white skin.
"Same method - probably the same weapon. But this man knew what to expect," Hannasyde muttered. He glanced over his shoulder. "Get on to the Department, Hemingway. And get rid of that woman. Tell her she'll have to answer questions. Not that she's likely to know anything."
The Sergeant nodded, and went out. Left alone in the room, Hannasyde turned his attention from the body to his surroundings. These told him little enough. The room was sparsely furnished, but had been embellished by a number of photographs and coloured pictures, some framed, some pinned on the wall, or stuck into the frame of the spotted mirror over the fireplace. A curtain, drawn across one corner of the room, concealed from view several cheap suits, and a few pairs of shoes. On the dressing-table before the window were ranged bottles of hair oil, shaving lotion, nail varnish, and scent. Hannasyde grimaced at them, and taking out his handkerchief, covered his hand with it, and pulled open the two top drawers of the table. A motley-coloured collection of socks and handkerchiefs was all that one contained, but in the other, under a pile of ties, were scattered a number of letters, old programmes, playbills, and Press cuttings.
Hannasyde had gathered all these together into a heap by the time the Sergeant returned, and was standing looking at a photograph, cut from a picture paper, which he held in his hand. He looked round as the Sergeant entered the room, and held the cutting out to him without comment.
The Sergeant took it, and read out: "Snapped at the Races, the Hon. Mrs. Donne, Miss Claudine Swithin, and Mr. Ernest Fletcher. You don't say! Well, X has been eliminated all right, hasn't he, Chief? Find anything else?"
"Not yet. I'll wait till the room's been gone over for possible finger-prints." Still with his hand wrapped up, he extracted the key from the door, fitted it in again on the outside, and went out.
The Sergeant followed him, watched him lock the door and pocket the key, and said: "The old girl's in the kitchen. What do you want me to do?"
"Find out if the man at the coffee-stall saw anyone passing down this road about half-an-hour ago. Wait, I'll try and get out of the landlady exactly when Carpenter came home."
He walked down the passage to the kitchen at the back of the house, where he found the landlady fortifying herself with gin. She whisked the bottle out of sight when he appeared, and broke at once into a torrent of words. She knew nothing; and her poor husband, whom the shock would kill, was upstairs in bed with the influenza, and she had been with him for the past hour. All she could take her oath to was that Carpenter was alive at 9.30, because he had shouted up the stairs to her, wanting to know if a parcel of shoes hadn't come for him from the cobbler, as though she wouldn't have put it in his room if it had, as she told him, pretty straight.
"Steady! Could anyone have entered the house without your knowing it?" Hannasyde asked.
"They did, that's all I know," she said sullenly. "If someone got in, it must have been by the area door, and it isn't my blame. Carpenter, he ought to have bolted it when he come in. "Tisn't the first time he's been too lazy to put the chain up. The key's lost. I've been meaning to get a new one made."
"Did he use that door?"
"Yes, he did. Saved trouble, see?"
"Who else is in the house?"
"Me and my 'usband, and my gal, Gladys, and the first-floor front."
"Who is that?"
"A very nice lady. Stage, but she's resting."
"Who is on the ground-floor?"
"No one. He's away. His name's Barnes. He travels in soap."
"How long has Carpenter lodged here?"
"Six months. He was a nice young fellow. Smart, too."
"Were you friendly with him? Did he tell you anything about himself?"
"No. Ask no questions and you'll be told no lies, is what I say. As long as he paid his rent, nothing else didn't matter to me. I guessed he'd had his bit of trouble, but I'm not one for poking my nose into what don't concern me. Live and let five's my motto."
"All right, that's all for the present." Hannasyde left her, and went along the passage to the door that gave on to the area. The bolts were drawn back, and the chain hung loose beside the wall.
A few minutes later the police ambulance drew up outside the house. The divisional surgeon, the photographer, and the finger-print expert were soon busy in the basement room, and a fresh-faced young sergeant was dispatched to assist Hemingway in his search for possible witnesses.
Sergeant Hemingway returned just after Carpenter's body had been removed, and joined Hannasyde in the basement room, where he was engaged, with the help of an inspector, in searching through the dead man's possessions.
"Well?" Hannasyde said.
"Yes, I got something," the Sergeant answered. "The coffee-merchant only arrived at his pitch at 9.30, since when, Chief, the only person he's seen come down the road, setting aside you, me and the Constable on his beat, was a medium-sized man in evening dress, who walked quickly down the other side of the street, making for the taxi-rank in Glassmere Road. And what do you make of that?"
"Any description?"
"No. He didn't notice him particularly. Says it was too dark to see his face. But what he does say, Super, is that he wasn't wearing an overcoat, and he wasn't carrying anything in his hands. Talk about history repeating itself! I don't need to ask if you've found the weapon here. I wouldn't believe you if you said you had."
"I haven't. Did you find anyone to corroborate the coffee-stall owner's evidence?"
"If you can call it corroboration," said the Sergeant with a sniff. "There's a couple propping the wall up at the other end of the street. You know the style: kissing and canoodling for the past hour. I wouldn't set much store by what they say, but for what it's worth the girl seems to think she saw a gentleman in evening dress and an opera hat pass by about half-an-hour ago. Not what you'd call a lot of traffic on this road. I've put Lyne on to the houses opposite, on the chance someone may have been looking out of a window."
"Did the couple at the other end of the street notice whether the man in evening dress was carrying a stick?"
"Not they. First thing they said was they hadn't noticed anyone at all. I had to press them a bit before they came out of the ether, so to speak. Then the girl remembered seeing a man with a white shirt-front on the other side of the road, and the boy-friend says after thinking hard, yes, he believes he did see someone, only he didn't look at him particularly, and whether it was before or after the Constable passed them, he wouldn't like to say. Actually, it was just before, if the coffee-merchant is to be believed, which I think he is. What's more, they were going opposite ways, and there's an outside chance they may have passed each other. Shall I get hold of the chap who has this beat?"
"Yes, as soon as possible. Obviously he saw nothing suspicious, but if he did meet the man in evening dress he may be able to describe him."
"Not much doubt who he was, if you ask me," said the Sergeant. "It's North all right. But what he does with his weapon has me fairly beat. Sleight-of-hand isn't in it with that chap. You got any ideas, Chief?"
"No. Nor have I any idea why, if it was he, he had to kill Carpenter."
The Sergeant stared at him. "Well, but it's plain enough, isn't it, Chief? Carpenter must have seen the murder of the late Ernest. My own hunch is that he was trying his hand at blackmailing North for a change."
"Look here, Hemingway, if Carpenter was shown off the premises at 9.58 by Fletcher, how can he have seen the murder?"
"Perhaps he wasn't shown off the premises," said the Sergeant slowly. "Perhaps Mrs. North made that up." He paused, and scratched his chin. "Yes, I see what you mean. Getting what you might call involved, isn't it? It looks to me as though Charlie Carpenter knew a sight more about this business than we gave him credit for."