"What do you suppose he meant by that?" asked Neville, as the door closed behind Baker, ushering Superintendent Hannasyde out.
"Trying to rattle you," replied Sally briefly.
"Well, he's succeeded," said Neville. "I'm glad I ate that handsome breakfast before he came, for I certainly couldn't face up to it now."
"Talking of breakfast -'began North.
"How insensate of you, if you are!" said Neville. "Helen, darling, you have such a fertile imagination: are you quite sure you really saw Ernie showing his strange visitor out?"
"Of course I'm sure! What would be the point of making up such a tale?"
"If it comes to that, what was the point of deceiving John all this time?" said Neville reasonably. "Irrational lunacy - that's tautology, but let it stand - peculiar to females."
She smiled, but replied defensively: "It wasn't irrational. I know now it was silly, but I - I had a definite reason."
"It would be nice to know what that was," he remarked.
"Or no, on second thoughts, it would probably tax my belief too far. Only inference left to John was that you had committed what the legal profession so coyly calls misconduct with Ernie. Sally and I nearly wrote him an anonymous letter, divulging the whole truth."
"In some ways, I wish you had," said North. "If you will allow me to say so, it would have been far more helpful than your efforts to get your uncle to give back those IOUs. I've no doubt your spirit was willing, but -'
"Then you know very little about me," interrupted Neville. "My spirit was not in the least willing. I was hounded into it, and just look at the result! Being regarded as a sort of good Samaritan, which in itself is likely to lead to hideous consequences, is the least of the ills likely to befall me."
"I'm terribly sorry," sighed Helen, "but even though you didn't get my notes back, and we did land ourselves in a mess, my bringing you into it did lead to good. If I hadn't, John and I might never have come together again."
Neville closed his eyes, an expression on his face of acute anguish. "What a thought! How beautifully put! I shall not have died in vain. Ought I to be glad?"
"Look here!" Sally interposed. "It's no use regretting what you've done. You've got to think about what you're going to do next. It's obvious that the police suspect you pretty hotly. On the other hand, it's equally obvious that they haven't got enough evidence against you to allow of their applying for a warrant for your arrest. The question is: can they collect that evidence?"
Neville opened his eyes, and looked at her in undisguised horror. "Oh, my God, the girl thinks I did it!"
"No, I don't, I've got an open mind on the subject," said Sally bluntly. "If you did it, you must have had a darned good reason, and you have my vote."
"Have I?" Neville said, awed. "And what about my second victim?"
"As I see it," replied Sally, "the second victim - we won't call him yours just yet - knew too much about the first murder, and had to be disposed of. Unfortunate, of course, but, given the first murder, I quite see it was inevitable."
Neville drew a deep breath. "The weaker sex!" he said. "When I recall the rubbish that has been written about women all through the ages, it makes me feel physically unwell. Relentless, primitive savagery! Inability to embrace abstract ideas of right and wrong utterly disruptive to society. Preoccupation with human passions nauseating and terrifying."
Sally replied calmly: "I think you're probably right. When it comes to the point we chuck all the rules overboard. Abstractions don't appeal to us much. We're more practical than you, and - yes, I suppose more ruthless. I don't mean that I approve of murder, and I daresay if I read about these two in the papers I should have thought them a trifle thick. But it makes a difference when you know the possible murderer. You'd think me pretty rotten if I shunned you just because you'd killed one man I loathed, and another whom I didn't even know existed."
"I'm afraid, Sally, you're proving Neville's point for him," said North, faintly smiling. "The fact that he is a friend of yours should not influence your judgment."
"Oh, that's absolute rot!" said Sally. "You might just as well expect Helen to have hated you when she thought you were the murderer."
"So I might," he agreed, apparently still more amused.
"Well, we've wandered from the point, anyway," she said. "I want to know whether the police can possibly discover more evidence against you, Neville."
"There isn't any evidence! I keep on telling you I had nothing to do with it!" he said.
"Who had, then?" she demanded. "Who could have had?"
"Oh, the mystery man!" he said airily.
"With what motive?"
"Same as John's. Crime passionnel."
"What, more IOUs?"
"No. Jealousy. Revenge. All the hall-marks of a passionate murder, don't you think?"
"It's an idea," she said, knitting her brows. "Do you happen to know if he'd done the dirty on anyone?"
"Naturally I don't. I should have spilt the whole story, dear idiot. But lots of pretty ladies in Ernie's life."
"You think some unknown man murdered him because of a woman? It sounds quite plausible, but how on earth did he manage to do it in the time?"
"Not having been there, I can't say. You work it out."
"The point is, will the Superintendent be able to work it out?" she said.
"A much more important point to me is, will he be able to work out how I could have committed both murders?" retorted Neville.
Both points were exercising the Superintendent's mind at that moment. Having told PC Glass in a few well-chosen words what he thought of his conduct in condemning the morals of his betters, he set off with him towards the police station.
"The Lord," announced Glass severely, "said unto Moses, say unto the children of Israel, Ye are a stiffnecked people: I will come up into the midst of thee in a moment, and consume thee."
"Very possibly," replied Hannasyde. "But you are not Moses, neither are these people the children of Israel."
"Nevertheless, the haughtiness of men shall be bowed down. They are sinners before the Lord."
"That again is possible, but it is no concern of yours," said Hannasyde. "If you would pay more attention to this case, and less to other people's shortcomings, I should be the better pleased."
Glass sighed. "I have thought deeply. All is vanity and vexation of the spirit."
"There I agree with you," said Hannasyde tartly. "With the elimination of both Mr. and Mrs. North, nearly everything points now to Neville Fletcher. And yet - and yet I don't like it."
"He is not guilty," Glass said positively.
"I wonder? How do you arrive at that conclusion?"
"He has not seen the light; he has a naughty tongue, and by his scorning will bring a city into a snare; yet I do not think him a man of violence."
"No, he doesn't give me that impression either, but I've been wrong in my summing up of men too often to set much store by that. But whoever murdered Fletcher must also have murdered Carpenter. Perhaps it was young Fletcher - but I'd give a year's pension to know what he did with the weapon!"
"Is it so certain that the same weapon was used?" asked Glass in his painstaking way.
"It seems extremely probable, from the surgeon's reports on the injuries in each case."
"What of the man whom I saw? He was not Neville Fletcher."
"Perhaps Carpenter."
Glass frowned. "Who then was the man seen by Mrs. North?"
"I can't tell you, unless again it was Carpenter."
"You would say that he returned, having been sent away? For what purpose?"
"Only he could have answered that, I'm afraid."
"But it seems to me that the matter is thus made darker. Why should he return, unless to do Fletcher a mischief? Yet, since he himself is dead, that was not so. I think the man Fletcher had many enemies."
"That theory is not borne out by what we know of him. There was always the possibility that North might have been the murderer, but no one else, except Budd, who does not correspond with the description of the man in evening dress seen last night, has come into the case. And we've been into Fletcher's past fairly thoroughly. A nasty case. The Sergeant said so at the start."
"The unholy," said Glass, his eye kindling, "are like the chaff which the wind driveth away!"
"That'll do," said Hannasyde coldly, terminating the conversation.
When the Sergeant heard, later, that North's innocence was established, he spoke bitterly of resigning from the Force. "The hottest suspect we had, and he must needs go and clear himself !" he said. "I suppose there's no chance his alibis were faked?"
"I'm afraid not, Skipper. They're sound enough. I've been into them. We seem to be left with Neville Fletcher only. He has no alibi for last night. He admits, in fact, that he was in London."
"Well," said the Sergeant judicially, "if it weren't for his work on Ichabod, I'd as soon pinch him as anybody."
"I know you would, but unfortunately there's a snag - two snags. He stated, quite frankly, that he was wearing a dinner jacket suit last night. But he also said that his hat was a black felt. The man we want wore an opera hat."
"That's nothing," said the Sergeant. "He probably made that up."
"I don't think so. No flies on that young man. He said it was the only hat he possessed. I could so easily disprove that, if it weren't true, that I haven't even tried to. What is more, he is either a magnificent actor, or he really didn't know what I was driving at when I questioned him on his movements last night."
"All the same," said the Sergeant, "if North's out, young Neville's the only one who could have done it in the time."
"What time?"
The Sergeant answered with a touch of impatience: "Why, between Mrs. North's leaving and Ichabod's arrival, Chief!"
"Less time than that," corrected Hannasyde. "The murder must have been committed after 10.01 and before 10.02."
"Well, if that's so there hasn't been a murder," said the Sergeant despairingly. "It isn't possible."
"But there has been a murder. Two of them."
The Sergeant scratched his chin. "It's my belief Carpenter didn't see it done. If he left at 10.02, he couldn't have. Stands to reason."
"Then why was he killed too?"
"That's what I haven't worked out yet," admitted the Sergeant. "But it seems to me as though he knew something which would have told him who must have committed the murder. Wonder if Angela Angel had any other boy-friends?" He paused, his intelligent eyes more bird-like than ever. "Suppose he was shown out at 9.58? And suppose, when he was walking off, he caught sight of a chap he knew, sneaking in at that side gate? Think that might put ideas into his head? Seems to me he'd add two and two together and make 'em four when he read about the late Ernie's being found with his head bashed in."
"Yes, quite reasonable except for one detail you've forgotten. You're assuming that the man Glass saw at 10.02 was not Carpenter, but the murderer, and we're agreed that whenever that man may have entered the garden he cannot have murdered Fletcher until after 10.01. And that won't do."
"Nor it will," said the Sergeant, discomfited. After a moment's thought, he perked up again. "All right! Say Carpenter went back, to see what this other chap was up to. He saw the murder done, and he legged it for the gate as hard as he could."
"And the other man?"
"Like I said before. He heard Ichabod's fairy footfall, and hid himself in the garden, and slipped out as soon as Ichabod reached the study. The more I think of it, Chief, the more I see it must have been like that."
"It does sound plausible," Hannasyde conceded. "What was the unknown man's motive? Angela?"
"Yes, I think we'll have to say it was Angela, on account of Charlie's being linked up with him."
"Yet her friend - what was her name? Lily! - whom you questioned didn't mention any man but Carpenter and Fletcher in connection with Angela, did she?"
"Not what you might call specifically. She said there were plenty hanging round the poor girl."
"Doesn't seem likely that an apparently unsuccessful admirer would go to the lengths of killing Fletcher, does it?"
"If it comes to that, nothing seems likely about this case, except that we'll never get to the bottom of it!" said the Sergeant crossly.
Hannasyde smiled. "Cheer up! We've not done with it yet. What did you manage to find out today?"
"Nothing that looks like being of any use," the Sergeant replied. "We've got hold of one of Carpenter's relations, but he couldn't tell us much. Wait a bit: I've got it all here, for what it's worth." He picked up a folder, and opened it. "Carpenter, Alfred. Occupation, Clerk. Aged 34 years. Brother to the deceased. Has not set eyes on deceased since 1935."
"Did he know anything about Angela Angel?"
"No, only hearsay. According to him, Charlie was never what you'd call the hope of the family. Sort of kid who pinched the other kids' belongings at school. He started life in the drapery business, and got the sack for putting the petty cash in the wrong place. No prosecution; old Carpenter - he's dead now - paid up. After that, our hero joined a concert-party. Seems he could sing a bit, as well as look pansy. He stuck to that for a bit, and then he got a job on the stage proper - male chorus. By that time what with one thing and another, his family had got a bit tired of him, and they gave him order of the boot from home, and no mistake. Then he went and got married to an actress. Name of Peggy Robinson. The next thing the family knew was that he'd waltzed off into the blue, and his wife was on their doorstep, calling out for his blood. Alfred didn't take to her. Said that was one thing he didn't blame brother Charlie for, leaving a wife that was more like a raging tigress than a decent woman. They managed to get rid of her, but not for long. Oh no!! She went off on tour, and though Alfred says they had news that she was properly off with another fellow, that didn't stop her coming back to tell Charlie's people how she'd heard that he was in town again, and living with a girl he'd picked up somewhere in the Midlands. Seems he'd been on tour likewise. What the rights of it was I don't know, and nor does Alfred, but there doesn't seem to be much doubt about it that the girl was none other than Angela Angel."
"Where is the wife now?" interrupted Hannasyde.
"Pushing up daisies," replied the Sergeant. "Died of pneumonia following influenza, a couple of years ago. Alfred knew Charlie had been to gaol, but he hadn't had word of him since he came out, and didn't want to. He never saw Angela, but he says he was pretty sure she wasn't on the stage when Charlie picked her up. From what the wife told him, he gathered it was a regular village-maiden story. You know the sort of thing. Romantic girl, brought up very strict, falls for wavy-haired tenor, and elopes with him. Well, poor soul, she paid for it in the end, didn't she?"
"Did Alfred Carpenter remember what her real name was?"
"No, because he never knew it. But taking one thing with another, it looks to me as though one mystery's solved at least, which is why no one ever turned up to claim Angela when she did herself in. If she came from a strait-laced sort of home you may bet your life she was cast off, same as Charlie was. I've known people like that."
Hannasyde nodded. "Yes, but it doesn't help us much. Did you dig anything out of Carpenter's landlady, or the proprietor of the restaurant he worked at?"
"What I dug out of Giuseppe," replied the Sergeant acidly, "was a highly talented performance, but no good to me. How these foreigners can keep it up and not get tired out beats me! He put on a one-man show all for my benefit, hair-tearing, dio-mios, corpo-di-baccos, and the rest of it. I had to buy myself a drink to help me get over it, but he was as fresh as a daisy when he got through, and starting a row with his wife. At least, that's the way it looked to me, but I daresay it was only his way of carrying on a quiet chat. Anyhow, he doesn't know anything about Charlie."
"And the landlady?"
"She doesn't know anything either. Says she's one for keeping herself to herself. That doesn't surprise me, either. She's not my idea of a comfortable body anyone would confide in. And there we are. It's Neville or no one, Chief. And if you want to know what he did with his weapon, how about him having slid a stout stick up his sleeve?"
"Have you ever tried sliding a club up your sleeve?" inquired Hannasyde.
"Not a club. Call it a malacca cane."
"A malacca cane would not have caused those head injuries. The weapon was heavy, if a stick a very thick one, more like a cudgel."
The Sergeant pursed his lips. "If it's Neville we don't have to worry about the weapon he used to do in his uncle. He had plenty of time to get rid of that, or clean it, or whatever he did do with it. As far as the second murder's concerned - I suppose he couldn't have got that paper-weight into his pocket, could he?"
"Not without its being very noticeable. The head of the statue on top must have stuck out."
"Might not have been noticed in the bad light. I'll get on to Brown again - he's the chap with the coffee-wagon - and that taxi-driver. Not but what I'm bound to say we questioned them pretty closely before. Still, you never know."
"And the hat?"
"The hat's a nuisance," declared the Sergeant. "If he hasn't got an opera hat, perhaps he borrowed the late Ernie's, just because he knew no one would expect him to wear one. He could have carried it shut up under his arm without the butler's noticing it when he left the house. When he changed hats, he must have stuffed his own into his pocket."
"Two bulging pockets now," observed Hannasyde dryly. "Yet two witnesses - we won't commit the girl; she was too vague - said there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. And that raises another point. The taxi-driver, who seemed to me quite an intelligent chap, described his fare's appearance as that of an ordinary, nice-looking man. He didn't think he would know him again if confronted with him. When pressed, he could only repeat that he looked like dozens of other men of between thirty and forty. Now, if you met Neville Fletcher, do you think you'd recognise him again?"
"Yes," said the Sergeant reluctantly. "I would. No mistaking him. For one thing he's darker than most, and not what I'd call a usual type. He's got those silly long eyelashes too, and that smile which gets my goat. No: no one in their senses would say he's like dozens of others. Besides, he's younger than thirty, and looks it. Well, what do we do now?"
Hannasyde drummed his fingers lightly on the desk, considering. The Sergeant watched him sympathetically. Presently he said in his decided way: "Angela Angel. It comes back to her. It may sound far-fetched to you, Skipper, but I have an odd conviction that if only we knew more about her we should see what is so obstinately hidden now."
The Sergeant nodded. "Sort of a hunch. I'm a great believer in hunches myself. What'll we do? Advertise?"
Hannasyde thought it over. "No. Better not."
"I must say, I'm not keen on that method. What's more, if her people didn't come forward at the time of her death it isn't likely they will now."
"I don't want to precipitate another tragedy," Hannasyde said grimly.
The Sergeant sat up with a jerk. "What, more headbashings? You don't think that, do you?"
"I don't know. Someone is pretty determined that we shan't penetrate this fog we're groping in. Everything about the two murders suggests a very ruthless brain at work."
"Maniacal, I call it," said the Sergeant. "I mean, just think of it! You can understand a chap cracking open another chap's head if he was worked up into a white-hot rage. At the same time you'd expect him to feel a bit jolted by what he'd done, wouldn't you? I don't reckon to be squeamish, but I wouldn't like to have done the job myself, no, nor to have seen it done. Nasty, messy murder, I call it. But our bird isn't upset. Not he! He waltzes off and repeats the act - in cold blood, mind you! Think that's sane? I'm damned if I do!"
"All the more reason for being careful not to hand him a motive for killing someone else."
"That's true enough. But if we are dealing with a lunatic, Super, it's worse than I thought. You can catch up on a sane man. His mind works reasonably, same as your own; and, what's more important, he always has a motive for having committed his murder, which again is helpful. But when you come to a madman's brain you're properly in the soup, because you can't follow the way it works. And ten to one he hasn't got a motive for murder - not what a sane person would consider a motive, that is.
"Yes, there's a lot in what you say, but I don't think our man's as mad as that. We've a shrewd idea of what his motive was for killing Carpenter, and presumably he had one for killing Fletcher."
The Sergeant hunted amongst the papers before him on the desk, and selected one covered with his own handwriting. "Well, Super, I don't mind telling you that I've had a shot at working the thing out for myself. And the only conclusion I've come to is that the whole thing's impossible from start to finish. Once you start putting all the evidence down on paper you can't help but see that the late Ernest wasn't murdered at all. Couldn't have been."
"Oh don't be absurd!" said Hannasyde rather impatiently.
"I'm not being absurd, Chief. If you could chuck Mrs. North's evidence overboard, all well and good. But, setting aside the fact that she's got no reason to tell lies now she knows that precious husband of hers isn't implicated in the crime, we have the postman's word for it that a woman dressed like her came out of Greystones at just after 10.00 p.m. on the 17th. So that fixes her. If it weren't for his having compared his watch with the clock in the late Ernest's study, I'd say old Ichabod was mistaken in the time he saw a chap coming out of the side gate. But he's a conscientious, painstaking officer, is Ichabod, and he's not the sort to state positively that it was 10.02 if it wasn't. I mean to say, you ought to hear him on the subject of false witnesses. Ticked me off properly, when I tried to shake his evidence a bit. But if you can make his evidence fit Mrs. North's, all I can say is you're cleverer than I am. It wasn't so bad when the only fixed times we had were 10.02, when Ichabod saw the unknown, and 10.05 when he discovered the body of the late Ernest. But the moment we began to collect more fixed times the whole case got so cock-eyed there was no doing anything with it. We're now faced with four highly incompatible times, unless you assume young Neville murdered his uncle, and Carpenter saw it, and bolted for his life. We've .got 9.58, or thereabouts, when Ernest saw Mrs. North's man off; 10.01, when Mrs. North left; 10.02 when Ichabod's man left by the side gate; and 10.05 when Ernest was found dead. Well, it just doesn't add up, and that's all there is to it. Unless you think Neville did it, and Mrs. North's covering him up?"
"No, not a chance. Mrs. North isn't interested in anyone except her husband. But I think the man she saw and the man Glass saw were one and the same. It's by no means conclusive, but we did find a pale grey felt hat amongst Carpenter's belongings."
"All right, we'll say they were the same. Now, we don't know what Carpenter went back for, having been shown out, but there might be scores of reasons, setting aside any violent ones. Suppose he saw young Neville in the study with his uncle, and decided it was no use waiting? Quite reasonable, isn't it? Well, he goes off. The fact that he hurried away doesn't prove a thing. He wasn't up to any good anyway, and he naturally wouldn't want to be questioned by a policeman. All this time Carpenter doesn't know Neville from Adam. But here's where we have the brainwave of the century, Chief! Do you remember young Neville getting his photo in one of the daily picture papers?"
"I do - as the Boots, and under the name of Samuel Crippen," said Hannasyde grimly.
"That wouldn't matter. Suppose Carpenter saw the paper? Stands to reason he'd be following the case fairly closely. He'd recognise Neville straight off. And if he'd seen him in evening dress on the night of the murder he'd know there was something phoney about that story of Neville's being employed as the Boots. My idea is that he saw his way to make a bit of easy money, and sneaked down to make a contact with Neville. No difficulty about that. Only Neville's too sharp to allow anyone to share a secret that would put a rope round his neck, and he proceeded to eliminate Carpenter double-quick. How's that?"
"It's perfectly plausible up to a point, Skipper. But it falls down as soon as it reaches the time of Carpenter's death, for reasons already stated."
"Then Carpenter was murdered by someone else altogether," said the Sergeant despairingly.
"Where's the data you collected about that murder?" Hannasyde asked suddenly. "Let me have a look at it."
The Sergeant handed him some typewritten notes. "Not that you'll be able to make much of it," he remarked pessimistically.
Hannasyde ran his eye down the notes. "Yes, I thought so. Landlady stated Carpenter was alive at 9.30. Dora Jenkins said that the man in evening dress passed by on the other side of the road just before the policeman appeared, coming from the other direction."
"Yes, and if you read on a bit further you'll see that her boy-friend said the policeman came by ages before the man in evening dress. Of the two, I'd sooner believe him. She was simply trying to spin a good tale."
"She was, but surely - yes, I thought so. Brown put the time he saw the policeman at about 9.40, and stated that as far as he could remember the man in evening dress passed a minute or two later. That seems to tally more or less with the girl's story. Did we ascertain from the Constable what time it was when he entered Barnsley Street?"
"No," admitted the Sergeant. "As he didn't see any man in evening dress, or notice anything wrong at No. 43, I didn't think that it was important."
"I wonder?" Hannasyde was frowning at the opposite wall.
"Got an idea, Chief?" the Sergeant asked, his interest reviving.
Hannasyde glanced at him. "No. But I think we'll find out just when the Constable did pass up the street."
The Sergeant said briefly: "Sorry, Chief!" and picked up the telephone-receiver.
"My own fault. I didn't see that it might be important either. It may not be. Can but try."
While the Sergeant waited to be connected with the Glassmere Road Police Station, Hannasyde sat reading the notes on both cases, his brows knit. The Sergeant, having exchanged a few words with the official on duty at the police station, lowered the receiver, and said: "Just come on duty, Super. Will you speak to him?"
"Yes, tell them to bring him to the phone," said Hannasyde absently.
The Sergeant relayed this message, and while Constable Mather was being summoned, sat watching his superior with a puzzled but alert expression on his face. A voice speaking in his ear distracted his attention. "Hullo! Is that Mather? Hold on! Detective-Superintendent Hannasyde wants a word with you. Here you are, Chief."
Hannasyde took the instrument from him. "Hullo! This is with reference to last night, Mather. I want you to clear up a point which seems to have been left in the air."
"Yes, sir," said PC Mather dutifully.
"Do you remember at what hour you reached Barnsley Street on your beat?"
There was a slight pause; then the Constable said rather anxiously: "I don't know to the minute, sir."
"No, never mind that. As near as possible, please."
"Well, sir, when I passed the post office in Glassmere Road the clock there said 9.10, so by my reckoning it would be just about 9.15 when I got to Barnsley Street."
"What?" Hannasyde said. "Did you say 9.15?"
"Yes, Sir. But I wouldn't want to mislead you. It might have been a minute or so more or less."
"Are you quite certain that it wasn't after 9.30?"
"Yes, Sir. Quite. It wouldn't take me all that time to get to Barnsley Street from the post office. There's another thing, too, sir. Brown - the man with the coffee-stall - hadn't taken up his pitch when I passed."
"But Brown stated when questioned that he had seen you shortly after he arrived at 9.30!"
"Said he saw me last night?" repeated Mather.
"Yes, quite definitely."
"Well, sir," said Mather, in a voice of slowly kindling suspicion, "I don't know what little game he thinks he's playing, but if he says he saw me last night he's made a mistake. If I may say what I think, sir -'
"Yes, go on!"
"Well, Sir, I suppose for a matter of six or seven days he has seen me, for I've been down Barnsley Street, sometimes at one time, and sometimes at another, each evening, but always after 9.30. Only, as it so happens, I took Barnsley Street and Letchley Gardens early last night. It seems to me Brown was making that up, sir, kind of banking on what he thought probably did happen. If I may say so."
"All right: thanks! That's all."
Hannasyde replaced the instrument on its rest, and turned to find the Sergeant regarding him with newly awakened interest.
"You needn't tell me, Super! I gathered it all right. Mather passed up the street at 9.15, and Brown never saw him at all. Well, well, well! Now we do look like getting somewhere, don't we? What you might call opening up a new avenue. Who is Mr. Brown, and what has he got to do with the case? Come to think of it, he did answer me remarkably pat. But what he's playing at - unless he killed Carpenter - I don't see."
"Alfred Carpenter," said Hannasyde, disregarding these remarks. "What's his address? I want the name of that travelling company Carpenter joined."
"Back on to Angela?" said the Sergeant, handing over Alfred Carpenter's deposition. "She wasn't one of the members of the company, if that's what you're thinking."
"No, I'm not thinking that. What I want is a list of the towns visited by that company."
"Holy Moses!" gasped the Sergeant. "You're never going to comb the Midlands for a girl whose name you don't even know?"
Hannasyde looked up, a sudden twinkle in his deep-set eyes. "No, I'm not as insane as that - quite."
The Sergeant said suspiciously, "What do you mean by that, Chief? Pulling my leg?"
"No. And if the notion that has occurred to me turns out to be as far-fetched as I fear it is, I'm not going to give you a chance to pull mine either," replied Hannasyde. "Yes, I see Alfred Carpenter's on the telephone. Get his house, will you, and ask if he knows the name of that company or, failing that, a possible agent's name. He ought to be home by now."
The Sergeant shook his head in a somewhat dubious manner, but once more picked up the telephone. After a few minutes, he was able to inform his superior that Mr. Carpenter, denying all knowledge of the companies his brother had toured with, did seem to remember hearing him speak of an agent.
"It might have been Johnson, or Jackson, or even Jamieson," said the Sergeant sarcastically. "Anyway, he feels sure the name began with a j. Isn't that nice?"
"Good enough," Hannasyde replied. "I'll go into that in the morning."
"And what do you want me to do?" the Sergeant inquired. "Ask Mr. Brown a few searching questions?"
"Yes, by all means. Get hold of the girl again as well, and see if she sticks to her original story. And look here, Hemingway! Don't mention any of this to anyone at all. When you've interviewed Brown and Dora Jenkins, go down to Marley. I'll either join you there, or send a message through to you."
"What do I do there?" asked the Sergeant, staring. "Hold a prayer meeting with Ichabod?"
"You can check up on your own theory about Neville F'letcher's hat. You can take another careful look at the paper-weight, too."
"Oh, so now we go all out for young Neville, do we?" said the Sergeant, his gaze fixed on the Superintendent's face. "Are you trying to link him up with Angela, Chief? What have you suddenly spotted, if I may make so bold as to ask? Twenty minutes ago we had two highly insoluble murder cases in front of us. It doesn't seem to me as though you're particularly interested in Brown, so what is it you're after?"
"The common factor," answered Hannasyde. "It only dawned on me twenty minutes ago, and may very possibly be a mare's nest."
"Common factor?" repeated the Sergeant. "Well, that's the weapon, and I thought we'd been after that ever since the start."
"I wasn't thinking of that," said Hannasyde, and left him gaping.