Mrs. Haddington, sweeping into the drawingroom, found that young Mr. Harte was still seated by the fire, engaging Miss Birtley in desultory conversation. Mrs. Haddington favoured him with her mechanical smile, but addressed herself to her secretary. "I imagine the Chief Inspector will wish to interrogate you, Miss Birtley. I suppose you had better spend the rest of the night here - unless you could get hold of a taxi to take you home. At my expense, of course, but heaven knows what the time is, and whether there are any taxis still on the streets I have really no idea."
"Don't worry!" Timothy said, rising to his feet. "I've got my car outside, and I'll run Miss Birtley home when the Inquisitors have finished with her."
"I wish you wouldn't bother!" Beulah said.
"No bother at all, dear Miss Birtley: a pleasure!" Timothy responded promptly.
"Really, I think it is extremely kind of you!" Mrs. Haddington said, slightly raising her plucked eyebrows. "If you will forgive me, I shall go up to bed."
"Please don't sit up on my account!" Timothy begged. "You must be dropping on your feet!"
"I am very tired," she acknowledged. She turned her head, as the door opened, and said: 'Ah, you want my secretary, I expect!"
"If you please, madam," said Inspector Grant.
Beulah rose jerkily. "I'm quite ready. I - I wish you wouldn't wait, Timothy!"
"You've said that before," he pointed out. "My own conviction is that you ought to be supported by your legal adviser during this interview."
"No, no, really I'd rather not! Please!"
"The Chief Inspector, sir, would like to see Miss Birtley alone, I think," said Inspector Grant.
"What the Chief Inspector would like leaves me very cold," retorted Timothy.
"Timothy, I would much prefer to be alone!"
"That," said Timothy, "is quite another matter. Go with God, my child!"
Upon entering the boudoir, Beulah could not forbear casting one shrinking glance towards the chair beside the telephone-table. It was, of course, empty, and she seemed to breathe more easily. Hemingway, who had equipped himself, at the start of his interrogations, with one of the small tables with which the room was generously provided, rose from behind it, and invited her to take the seat he had placed opposite to his own. He then requested her, in an official tone, to furnish him with her full name.
She said, in her brusque way: 'Beulah Birtley. I've already told the police that once tonight."
"I know you have," replied Hemingway. "What I'm asking you for is your full name." Across the little table, their eyes met, hers challenging, his mildly enquiring. "I remember Beulah," said Hemingway conversationally.
"But there was another Christian name, foreign, I think; and Birtley wasn't the surname."
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Yes, you do," Hemingway said. "I've got a good memory for faces, and yours isn't one I'd forget easily."
"You are mistaken. You may think you know me, but I've never seen you before in my life!"
"No, you wouldn't have noticed me: I wasn't concerned in your case. But I happened to be in Court that day. So now let's get down to brass tacks, shall we? It doesn't do you any good to tell me lies, and it's very wearing for me. Name?"
She looked for a moment as though she did not mean to answer, but in the end she said sullenly: 'Francesca Beulah Birtley Meriden."
"I thought there was a foreign name in it," commented Hemingway, writing it down. "You got nine months, didn't you? Embezzlement?"
"Also forgery."
"How old are you?" he asked, glancing shrewdly at her. "Twenty-four."
"Parents?"
"Both dead."
"Any other relatives?"
"I have an uncle - though he would prefer me not to say so. I've neither seen him nor heard from him since my imprisonment. He's probably forgotten my existence by now: he's very good at forgetting unpleasantness." She shot him a darkling look. "What has all this got to do with what happened here tonight? I suppose you think that because I was convicted of theft and forgery you can pin this murder on to me?"
"Not without a bit of evidence I can't. Though it'd be just like the wicked police to fake up a lot of evidence against you, wouldn't it? Let's cut that bit! You'd be surprised the number of times I've listened to it before. How long had you known Seaton-Carew?"
"Since I came out of prison."
"Oh? How did you get to know him?"
She hesitated.
"Come on!" Hemingway said. "What was he up to? Giving a helping hand to lame ducks? Or did you meet him socially?"
"No, I didn't. Someone told me to go to him. Said he'd find me a job."
"Who was that?"
"A woman."
"Probation officer, by any chance?"
"No. A fellow convict!"
"Now, that's very interesting," said Hemingway. "Don't bother to tell me you didn't go to the Probation officer, or report yourself at any police station, because I can guess that, and it isn't what I want to talk about, anyway. What made this woman think Seaton-Carew would find you a job?"
She gave a short laugh. "I don't know. At least, I didn't know at the time. There were still quite a lot of flies on me six months ago! I don't really know now - but it wasn't because he was a philanthropist! She apparently thought he would find a use for me. He did: he sent me to Mrs. Haddington. That was very nice for all of us. He got her gratitude; she got a secretary who wouldn't give notice, however poisonous she was; and I got a fixed wage."
"Well, that sounds like philanthropy, doesn't it? What was Seaton-Carew's job in life?"
"I have no idea."
"Now, look here!" said Hemingway. "You've thrown out a few hints that he was up to no good, so presumably you have got an idea! Suppose you were to stop behaving as though you thought you were Little Red Ridinghood and I was the Wolf! If I were, I should start getting nasty about your failure to report yourself while on licence, whereas I'm not saying anything about that at all. At the same time, you're on a sticky wicket, and the best thing you can do is to come clean."
"I thought it wouldn't be long before we reached threats!" Beulah said, her lip curling.
Hemingway sighed. "Have sense!" he begged. "So far, the only member of this outfit who's got a record is you. You haven't got an alibi; you bought the wire which was used to strangle him. If you can add that lot up to a different total than what I come to you're a darned sight smarter than I think! Which isn't saying much," he added caustically.
Her eyes narrowed. "Look!" she said, between closed teeth. "Once upon a time Little Red Ridinghood thought the police were her guardian angels, and that all she had to do was always to tell them the truth. Then she discovered her error, and, being several darned sights smarter than you think, she didn't fall into it again! I'm not spilling my heart out to you, Chief Inspector! The only thing I'm going to tell you is that I didn't murder Seaton-Carew - though I rather wish I'd thought of it - and if you can pin it on to me, good luck to you! I don't care a damn! I know what kind of a merry hell one can live through if one is a released convict, and I'd a lot rather be dead! I haven't the slightest doubt that you'll tell the world my record, so you may as well make a clean sweep, and arrest me for murder while you're about it!"
"Yes, but, you know, I'm handicapped," objected Hemingway. "We do have to be so careful in the Force. Telling the world about your record would be clean against regulations."
She looked up quickly, but only said: "Well, I don't care. I don't know anything about Dan Seaton-Carew."
"All right, we'll leave it at that," said Hemingway. "Tell me something you do know! When you took that call, what did you do with the receiver?"
"What did I do with it? Put it on the table, of course!"
"Just show me, as near as you can, will you?"
She looked frowningly at him, as though suspicious of a trap. After a moment, she rose, and went to the table, lifting the receiver from the rest with her left hand, and laying it on the table.
"No nearer to the edge than that?"
"I don't think so. I'm not sure, but I think this is how I left it."
"Thanks; you can put it back now. Who was on the landing outside the drawing-room when you took the call for Seaton-Carew last night?"
"My employer."
"No one else?"
She frowned. "No. Not at once. Mr. Butterwick came out of the room, but he wasn't there at first."
"Did he come out in time to hear your conversation with Mrs. Haddington?"
"I don't know. I wasn't paying much heed to him."
"Did you see him again while Seaton-Carew was in this room?"
"I saw him in the dining-room, but I didn't speak to him."
"Did you notice whether he was what you might call normal, or a bit upset?"
"No. I didn't."
"You're a great help, aren't you?" said Hemingway.
"I've got no wish to help the police."
"Go away before I lose my temper with you!" recommended Hemingway.
He succeeded in surprising her. She looked astonished and blurted out: "Is that all? Don't you want to know what I did with the spare coil of wire?"
"You left it on the shelf in the cloakroom, where no one, not even Mrs. Haddington, happened to catch sight of it."
"So likely that anyone would admit to having seen it! And if Mrs. Haddington didn't, it must have been the only thing that did escape her eye in the house! She saw that one of the unfortunate servants had put out the wrong kind of towel in the cloakroom fast enough!"
"Oh, she saw that, did she? Careful housewife?"
"Extremely so! Capable of drawing her finger along the tops of things to be sure there's no dust there!" said Beulah, with a short laugh. "Anything more?"
"Not at present. You go home, Miss Birtley, and think things over a bit! Then perhaps we'll get on much better when next we meet."
Inspector Grant rose quietly, and opened the door. Beulah hesitated, looking from him to Hemingway, and then went quickly from the room.
The Inspector closed the door with deliberation. His chief, regarding him with the eye of experience, said: "All right, I can see you're bursting with something! Let's have it!"
"A verra dour witness," said the Inspector.
"Well, if that's all - !"
The Inspector's slow, shy smile lit his eyes. "Och, I saw nothing you did not see yourself! You will not thank me for pointing out to you that Mrs. Haddington stated that she had not entered the cloakroom; nor that she has it in her, that lassie, to murder a man."
"She's got it in her all right, but I'm damned if I see the motive. Look up her case, will you, Sandy?"
"I will, of course. It's verra interesting: no one had a motive."
"Someone had. Our trouble is that we don't know the first thing about any of them - barring that girl. All we've got is a bunch of classy people, all moving in the best circles, all to be handled carefully, and only one of them known to the police." He scratched his chin meditatively. "You can just see a chap like Mr. Godfrey Poulton putting up a beef to the Assistant Commissioner about the rude way he's been handled, can't you? And they've all of them got such nice manners they won't talk about each other! To think I should ever be glad to run up against Terrible Timothy in a case! It all goes to show, doesn't it?"
"That would be Mr. Harte?"
"It would."
"I do not think he would strangle a man."
"I'm dead sure he wouldn't - at least, I would have been before the War, but now I come to think of it he's just the sort of young devil to have got himself into a Commando, and the parlour-tricks they taught those lads were enough to make your hair stand on end! All the same, Terrible Timothy isn't even an Also Ran in my humble opinion. Which is why, Sandy, I am going to call on him in these chambers of his, and get him to give me the low-down on these people! He was very keen on helping me when he was fourteen: well, now he can help me!" He rose, and added: "And what his father and mother would say, if they knew of the highly undesirable bit of goods he's got his eye on, is nobody's business!" He shut his notebook, and restored it to his pocket. "We'll go and see what the backroom boys have discovered in the way of finger-prints. It won't help us, but we may as well go by the book. After that, we'll give Mr. Seaton-Carew's flat the once-over, and see what we can get out of that. No use my hauling some housemaid out of bed to get the story of the wrong towel out of her: that'll keep."
"What, Chief Inspector, did you make of Mrs. Haddington?"
"I'm no judge of snakes, but she seemed to me a good specimen! I didn't like her, I didn't like her story, and I don't like her any the better for the latest disclosure. Come on!"
The finger-print experts had only one thing to show the Chief Inspector that interested him. As he had supposed, no prints could be obtained from the wire twisted round Seaton-Carew's neck; the prints on various objects in the room included only those which would naturally be found there. The telephone-receiver showed several rather blurred prints, a clear impression of Miss Birtley's fingers, and not a trace of the murdered man's.
"Which is a very significant circumstance," said Hemingway. "It's no use asking me why it's important, because so far I don't know. I know it is, because I've got flair. That's French, and it's what made me a Chief Inspector, whatever anyone may tell you."
"It means," said Inspector Grant, "that the murdered man never touched the receiver."
"How long did it take you to work that one out?" demanded Hemingway offensively.
The Inspector continued, unmoved: "And it means that either the instrument was knocked from the table in a struggle, or that someone lifted it, and dropped it. For why?"
"You can rule out the struggle: there wasn't one. If that had been how that receiver came to be hanging down to the floor, the whole table would have been kicked over, and it wasn't. It looks as if someone deliberately lifted it off the table, and let it hang." He laid down the photograph he had been studying. "Why? Fair-sized chap, Seaton-Carew, wasn't he? Whoever planned to do him in wanted to be sure of getting him in what you might call a convenient position. If you were called away in the middle of a game of Bridge to take a telephonecall, what would you do?"
"I do not play Bridge.".
"Well, shinty, or whatever your unnaturall game is called! You'd pick up the receiver, standing! You might even be facing quite the wrong way for the assassin. But if you found the receiver hanging down beside the table, the way it was, what would be the easiest way for you to pick it up? To sit down in the chair, placed so handy, of course! That would bring your neck well within the reach of a shorter person. And don't tell me that every one of the suspected persons, barring Terrible Timothy, was shorter than Seaton-Carew, because I've seen that for myself! I told you this wasn't going to do us any good. What's the time? Seven o'clock? Let's make a night of it, and have some breakfast! After that, we'll go round to this Jermyn Street address, and startle Mr. Seaton-Carew's man."
Before they set forth on this mission, the Inspector was obliged to present his disgusted chief with the information that the call from Doncaster had come from a public call-box.
"Which isn't at all the sort of thing I want to be told at this hour of the morning," remarked Hemingway, pouring himself out another cup of very strong tea. "Not that I'm surprised. The only thing that would surprise me about this case would be if I was to get a real lead."
"Whisht now, it is early yet!" said the Inspector soothingly.
"It isn't too early for me to recognise a thick fog when I see one!" retorted Hemingway. "To think I told Bob I was glad it wasn't another Pole getting funny with a knife! Now, that was easy!"
"Ay," agreed Grant. "There were so many motives you said there was no seeing the wood for the trees, I mind well. And three of the suspects with records as long as from here to the Border. Ah, well!"
"I don't know how it is," said Hemingway, "but whenever I get an assistant detailed to me he can't ever find anything better to do than to remember a lot of things I've said which it would do him more good to forget. I had a young fellow once with just that same habit, before the War it was, and do you know what happened to him? He had to leave the Force!"
"If it's Wake you're meaning," said Grant patiently, "I know well he left the Force, for he married a widow with a snug business, and already they have three, or it may be four, bairns."
"Well, let that be a lesson to you!" said Hemingway. "Stop trying to annoy me, and come to Jermyn Street!"
The morning papers were on sale by this time; as the police-car paused, in a traffic hold-up, before a newsagent's shop, flaring headlines caught the Chief Inspector's eye. One of the more popular journals sought to attract custom by the caption, written in arresting capitals: Murder at a Bridge-Party! Inspector Grant slid quickly out of the car, procured a copy of this enterprising news-sheet, and jumped back into the car as it moved forward.
"That," said Hemingway grimly, "must have been sent in before two o'clock this morning — if not earlier! Nice times we live in!"
Scanning the somewhat meagre information contained in the paragraphs beneath the headlines, Grant said: "I doubt this is the butler."
"Well, I don't!" said his superior. "There isn't any doubt at all about it! Come to think of it, butlers must make a pretty penny on the side. I wonder what they gave him for this tit-bit?"
"I do not know," said Grant conscientiously. "But it is in my mind that he would not have done this if he had been in the service of his last employer. Mind, I do not, myself, set any great store by a Sassenach, but I would say that Lord Minsterley was a gentleman-born, and would be respected by his servants! It is as I told you: they have no respect for Mrs. Haddington. There was a telephone in the butler's pantry. Content you, he sent the news before ever we arrived at that house."
"Why you should suppose that should content me I don't know, but never mind!" said Hemingway. "It only means the crime reporters will be badgering us a bit sooner than we looked for."
Mr. Seaton-Carew's flat, in a block of bachelors' chambers, was on the third floor. An electric lift bore the two police officers to this floor; and the door of the flat was opened to them by a willowy manservant, who, if he did not appear to be startled by their arrival, was certainly nervous. He said that he had been advised earlier of his master's death; and made haste to usher them into the sitting-room.
The flat was not extensive, consisting merely of two bedrooms, a dining-room, a sitting-room, and what were known as "the usual offices'. It was furnished in an expensive but undistinguished style, its amenities including mirrored panels in the bedroom, and the tiny hall; a plate-glass dining-table; numerous deep chairs covered in oxhide, and lavishly provided with velvet cushions; a glass-fronted bookcase, containing sets of standard authors in tooled calf bindings, which bore all the appearance of having been bought to form part of the room's decoration; an opulent radio-cabinet; several pictures in slightly exotic taste; and such repellent adjuncts as a standard lamp, upheld by a naked bronze female, an alabaster ashtray, surmounted by a silver aeroplane, and a cocktail-cabinet, furnished with an interior light, a bewildering array of bottles, and a complete set of glasses, all of which were embellished with erotic designs.
"In fact," said Hemingway, "the sort of decor that puts very funny ideas into one's head."
A cursory inspection of the flat yielded no clue to Seaton-Carew's profession. It was strangely impersonal, nor did a rapid survey of his pass-sheets, discovered in a drawer of the desk, provide Hemingway with an explanation of his obvious wealth. His investments seemed to be few and orthodox, but on the credit side were numerous sums briefly described as Cash.
"Up to no good," said the cynical Hemingway. "Or perhaps he was only bilking the Inland Revenue," he added charitably. "This place tells us nothing at all, Sandy."
The Inspector, who had gazed with an affronted eye upon the pictures adorning the walls of Mr. Seaton-Carew's bedroom, and who had been noticeably affected by the sybaritic aspect of his bathroom, replied austerely that it told him a great deal.
"That's only prejudice," said Hemingway. "The trouble with you is that you're not broadminded. Ever noticed that all pansies have exactly the same kind of manservant? Funny thing: you can spot 'em at a glance! We'll go and have a nice heart to heart with this specimen!"
But it was soon made manifest that Mr. Francis Caister had not been admitted into his master's confidence. Smoothing his thick, curly locks with one unquiet hand, he said that he had been in Seaton-Carew's employment for eighteen months, and that it had been a very pleasant situation, Mr. Seaton-Carew being a gentleman as was often out to meals. He did not think that his master had been in business. If he might, he would describe him as a gentleman of leisure. Questioned, he was a little vague on the subject of Seaton-Carew's visitors: he had had so many. He recalled Mr. Butterwick, however, and said, with a genteel cough, that that was a young gentleman as took things to heart, as one might say. Quite hysterical sometimes, he had been, particularly if he found another young gentleman, or, as it might be, a lady visiting Mr. Seaton-Carew.
"Did Mr. Seaton-Carew entertain many ladies?" asked Hemingway.
"Well," replied Caister coyly, "not what one would properly term ladies. But," he added, with a touch of vicarious pride, "he used to visit in very nice houses."
"Had he any relatives?"
Mr. Caister was unable to answer this: he had never seen any; nor could he oblige the Chief Inspector with the name of Seaton-Carew's solicitor. A search through the desk in the sitting-room yielded little result: Mr. Seaton-Carew had apparently made a habit of destroying his correspondence, nor did he keep an addressbook. A cheque-book, however, furnished Hemingway with the name and address of his Bank. Leaving Inspector Grant to visit the Manager of the Branch patronised by Seaton-Carew, Hemingway went off to ring up Mr. Timothy Harte, at his chambers in Dr Johnson's Buildings. Mr. Harte, not being engaged in Court that morning, most obligingly said that he would be happy to entertain an old acquaintance there and then, but suggested (since he shared a small room with another budding barrister) that the rendezvous should be at his home address, in Paper Buildings. Thither the Chief Inspector wended his way.
He was admitted to Timothy's chambers by a middle aged man, who had Old Soldier written clearly all over him, and ushered into a comfortable room overlooking the garden, which smelt of tobacco and leather, and was lined with bookshelves. Most of these carried ranks of depressing Law Reports, and other legal tomes, some of which, having been acquired at second or third hand, had a slightly mildewed appearance. An aged Persian rug covered most of the floor, and a large knee-hole desk stood in the window. Young Mr. Harte, in the black coat and striped trousers of his calling, was seated at this, smoking a pipe, and glancing through a set of papers, modestly priced on the covering sheet at 2 guar. He threw these aside when Hemingway came into the room, and got up. "Come in, Chief Inspector! Welcome to my humble abode!" he said. "Chuck those things off that chair, and sit down! Sorry about the general muddle: that's the way I like it!"
"Well, I'm bound to say I like it better than the last set of gentleman's apartments I was in, sir!" responded Hemingway, shaking hands.
"You do? Whose were they?"
"Mr. Seaton-Carew's."
"Fancy that now!" said Timothy. "I should have thought he would have done himself very artily."
"He did," said Hemingway, removing The Times, a paperbacked novel, a box of matches, two bundles of papers tied up with red tape, and a black cat from a deep chair, and seating himself in it. "Quite upset Inspector Grant. But then, he's a Scot! I'm more broadminded myself. No, thanks, sir, if it's all the same to you, I'll light my pipe. I thought I'd just look in to have a crack with you about old times."
"Having the morning on your hands," agreed Timothy. "Come off it! What am I? Chief Suspect, or Information Bureau?"
"Yes," said Hemingway, "you always were about as sharp as a bagful of monkeys, sir, weren't you? I daresay it'll get you into trouble one of these days. I do want some information, but I'd like to know what you've been up to since I saw you last."
"School - War - Cambridge - Bar," replied Timothy succinctly.
"I'm glad to see you came through the War safe and sound, anyway. Where were you?"
"Oh, all over the place!"
"I'll bet you were. Don't tell me you weren't in that Commando gang, because I shouldn't believe you! Right down your street that must have been!"
Timothy laughed. "I did end up with them," he admitted.
"I knew it! In fact, if I'd found a nasty-looking knife stuck into Mr. Seaton-Carew I'd have arrested you on the spot."
"Ah, I was too clever for you, wasn't I? Beer, or whisky?"
"I'll take a glass of beer, thank you, sir. Now, joking apart, you could help me a bit on this case, if you wanted to. I don't mind telling you that I'm all at sea. Very unfamiliar decor. What I want is some kind of an angle on a few of the dramatis personae, so to speak. Well, here's your very good health, sir!"
Timothy returned the toast, and sat down on the other side of the fireplace. "I don't promise to answer you, but what do you want to know?"
"I want first to know what sort of a man this. Seaton-Carew was, and what he did for a living."
"Search me!" replied Timothy. "I've often wondered. I thought the breed was dead. In fact, how anyone can live in these piping times as what used to be known as a gentleman of leisure has me beat. No visible means of support. Lives at a good address, dressed well, drove a high-powered car, generally to be seen at first-nights, Ascot, the Opera, the Ballet, and at quite a number of slightly surprising houses. Women were inclined to fall for him; men very rarely. That," added Timothy, "is not to be understood to include what we will politely term The Boy Friends. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, Melchizedek!"
The cat, which had sprung on to his knee, arched its back under his caressing, turned round twice, and settled down, purring loudly.
"Would you say he was a gentleman, sir?"
"I should say he was a high-class bounder," promptly replied Timothy. "Still, I know what you mean, and I suppose the answer is Yes. I don't know what school had the rare privilege of rearing him, but unless he was uncommon quick at picking up ways and tricks which can't possibly be described he was certainly at a decent one. I never heard him mention any relations, nor have I met anyone else of his name. You'd think anyone with a fine double-barrelled name like that would have hundreds of cousins littering the country, wouldn't you? Not so, but far otherwise! However, one must be fair, and he had no military prefix to his name. It always seemed to me the one thing lacking to complete the picture. Anything more I can tell you about him, or have I been defamatory enough to be going on with?"
"Something seems to tell me that you didn't like him," said Hemingway, with a twinkle.
"I expect your instinct gets pretty highly developed at your job," said Timothy. "I didn't. Broadly speaking, I'm in sympathy with his murderer, though I can't say I'm in favour of strangling people at Bridge-parties. Breaks the evening up so."
"If you don't mind my saying so, sir, you're a coldblooded young devil!" said Hemingway frankly. "Of course, if you do, I shall have to take it back, but I shall go on thinking it! My next question is what you might call delicate. Who is this Mrs. Haddington?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Chief Inspector. Widow in comfortable circumstances who gate-crashed Society about eighteen months ago. Previously unknown to Society, according to my Mamma. Said to have lived much abroad. Obvious reason for the gate-crash, one staggeringly beautiful daughter. How it was done, God knows! You wouldn't call her an attractive type, would you?"
"I would not, sir. Would money do it?"
"It would do a bit. Wouldn't get her into the houses I've seen her in. I'm told she was sponsored by Lady Nest Poulton. They appear to be bosom friends - which is another surprising thing. Lady Nest isn't exactly choosey, but she usually takes up celebrities, or very amusing types: not dull and rather off-white widows with lovely daughters. The money angle wouldn't interest her - her husband is rolling in the stuff. Nor is she the kind of woman who has a yen for launching debutantes. But she actually presented Cynthia Haddington last spring, and gave a ball for her. All very obscure."
"Tell me a little about these Poultons, sir, will you? Lady Nest, now - would she be Lady Nest Ellerbeck that used to get her picture in all the papers when she was a girl?"
"That's right: Greystoke's daughter. Went the pace no little in the Gay Twenties. Sort of Pocket Venus. Still pretty easy on the eyes, though she must be quite as old as my Mamma. Restless, unsteady type, very Athenian - always seeking some new thing, I mean. Poulton is Big Business. I hardly know him. Seems a quiet, dull sort of a chap. Doesn't figure much at his wife's parties. I don't mean that there's anything wrong: merely that he's a man of affairs, and more often than not flying to the States, or the Continent, or somewhere on business."
"Was Seaton-Carew a friend of the Lady Nest?"
"Yes. Nothing in that: very good man at a party, much cultivated by hostesses."
"You wouldn't put it any higher than that, sir?"
"Lord, no! If someone's told you that she called him Dan-darling, or Dan-my-sweet, dismiss it from your mind! She calls me Timothy-my-lamb on no provocation whatsoever. It's her line. Anything more?"
"Dr Westruther?" said Hemingway.
"Pillar of Harley Street. Sort of bloke who calls female patients Dear lady, and recommends them to take a glass of champagne and a caviare sandwich at eleven every morning."
"Now, how can you possibly know that?" expostulated Hemingway. "Don't tell me Lady Harte told you so, because I remember her very well, and if she's taken to going to fashionable doctors all I can say is that she's changed a lot in thirteen years!"
"Oh lord, no! I had that from quite another source: one of the Old Guard - not at Mrs. Haddington's party! Are you fancying Westruther in the role of Chief Suspect? What a singularly fragrant thought!"
"I'm not, but, according to the evidence, it was he who went up to the drawing-room from the library to explain how it was that the game was being held up."
"Pausing on the way to strangle Seaton-Carew. Why?"
"I can't think," said Hemingway calmly. "He says he hadn't ever met him before."
"I think the better of him. Half a shake! What price Sir Roddy? He it was who discovered the body, wasn't it? Now, there's a line for you!"
"When you kept on getting under my feet in the Kane case, sir," said Hemingway, with some asperity, "you may have driven me dotty, but at least you took it seriously, not as if it was a roaring farce! I don't say you haven't been helpful, because you have, up to a point, but I can see it's high time I left!"
"Oh, don't go!" Timothy begged, his very blue eyes wickedly mocking. "If it's because you heard the doorbell, stay put. I told Kempsey to say I was out. Nobody but tradesmen would call on me at this hour, anyway. I'm one of the world's workers, I am."
He was wrong. A halting step sounded, the door was opened, and Mr. James Kane limped into the room.
"Hallo, Jim!" exclaimed Timothy, rising from his chair to the intense discomfort of Melchizedek. "Now, this really is a reunion! Meet your old friend Sergeant Hemingway, now masquerading under the guise of a Chief Inspector!"
"Then you were at that party!" said James Kane, casting upon the table a copy of that same periodical which had caught the Chief Inspector's eye earlier in the morning. "You bloody little pest, Timothy! I could scrap you! For God's sake, Hemingway, clap him into a cell at Canon Row, and keep him there! How are you? I can't say, considering the circumstances, that I'm glad to meet you here, but it's nice to see you not looking a day older! Is my blasted half-brother one of the suspects?"
"Well, sir, I'm bound to say that he is!" replied Hemingway, wringing his hand.