"If we're considering Neville Fletcher as the possible murderer, it looks as though we should have to. But that brings us up against two difficult fences. The first is that her finger-prints were on the panel of the door, and I don't quite see how they came there if she didn't leave the room by that way. The second is that if her original story was true we know that a man entered the study at about 9.45, and left the premises again at 10.02 - for it seems a trifle far-fetched to suppose that more than one man visited Fletcher during those seventeen minutes. That being so, when did Neville find time to murder his uncle? In between Glass's seeing X depart and himself entering the study? Stretching the bounds of probability rather far, isn't it?"
"It is," admitted the Sergeant, caressing his chin. "But now you come to point it out to me I don't mind owning that the absence of the weapon wants a bit of explanation. I suppose the murderer could have shoved a heavy stick down his trouser leg, but it would have made him walk with a stiff leg, which Glass would have been bound to have noticed. I'm trying to think of something he could have had in his pocket - a spanner, for instance."
"That's assuming the murder was premeditated. One doesn't carry heavy spanners in one's pockets. Somehow it doesn't look premeditated to me. I can't bring myself to believe in a murderer who plans to kill his victim by battering his skull in, midway through the evening, in his own study."
"No, that's true," said the Sergeant. "And we went over the fire-irons. It looks as though the weapon, whatever it may have been, was got rid of pretty cleverly. It might be a good thing if I had a look round the place myself. A little quiet chat with that butler wouldn't do any harm. Surprising what you can pick up from servants - if you know the way to go about it."
"By all means go down there," said Hannasyde. "I want the place kept under observation. Meanwhile, I've some inquiries to make about the state of Neville Fletcher's bank balance, Mr. North's movements on the night of the murder, and the expansive Mr. Budd's mysterious business with Fletcher."
"You'll have a busy morning," prophesied the Sergeant. "Growing, isn't it? We started off with one man, and we've now got one lady, one jealous husband, one outside broker, one dead cabaret-girl, one criminal and one suspicious-looking nephew implicated in it. And we've only been at work on it since 9.00 this morning. If it goes on at this rate, we shan't be able to move for suspects in a couple of days' time. You know, I often wonder what made me join the Force." He began to put his papers together. "If it weren't for the fact that murder doesn't seem to fit in with what we know of Charlie Carpenter, my money would be on him. Do you suppose he's been hunting the late Ernest down ever since he came out of gaol?"
"I don't know, but considering that not even your fair Lily knew who Angela's protector was, it seems quite possible."
"Or," said the Sergeant musingly, "he found out by accident, and thought he saw his way to putting the black on the late Ernest. Come to think of it, that theory goes nicely with Mrs. North's revised version - the bit about Ernest saying the man X had made a mistake. Well, one thing's certain: we've got to get hold of Carpenter."
"The Department can look after that. I'd like you to get down to Marley first thing tomorrow, and see what you can pick up." Hannasyde rose, adding with a twinkle: "By the way, if you should run across a forceful young woman with a monocle, God help you! She's Mrs. North's sister, and interested in crime. Writes detective stories."
"What?" said the Sergeant. "You mean to tell me I'm going to have an authoress tagging round after me?"
"I should think it's quite probable," replied Hannasyde gravely.
"Well, isn't that nice?" said the Sergeant with awful sarcasm. "You'd have thought Ichabod was a big enough cross for anyone to bear, wouldn't you? It just shows you: when Fate's got it in for you there's no limit to what you may have to put up with."
Hannasyde laughed. "Go home and study Havelock Ellis, or Freud, or whoever it is you do study. Perhaps that'll help you to cope with the situation."
"Study! I won't have time," said the Sergeant, reaching for his hat. "I'm going to be busy this evening."
"You'd better relax. You've had a pretty strenuous day. What are you going to do?"
"Mug up the Bible," said the Sergeant bitterly.
Chapter Seven
It was late when Hannasyde left his room at Scotland Yard, and when at last he went home he had learnt enough from his perusal of Ernest Fletcher's papers to make him visit the offices of Mr. Abraham Budd shortly after nine o'clock the following morning.
Mr. Budd did not keep him waiting. The typist who had carried his card in to her employer returned almost immediately, pop-eyed with curiosity, ready to dramatise, as soon as a suitable audience should present itself, this thrilling and sinister call, and invited him, in a fluttering voice, to follow her.
Mr. Budd, who rose from a swivel-chair behind his desk as Hannasyde was ushered in, and came eagerly forward to greet him, corresponded so exactly with Sergeant Hemingway's description of him, that Hannasyde had to bite back a smile. He was a short, fat man, with a certain oiliness of skin, and an air of open affability that was almost oppressive. He shook Hannasyde by the hand, pressed him into a chair, offered him a cigar, and said several times that he was very glad to see him.
"Very glad, I am, Superintendent," he said. "What a shocking tragedy! What a terrible affair! I have been most upset. As I told the Sergeant at Scotland Yard, it struck me all of a heap. All of a heap," he repeated impressively. "For I respected Mr. Fletcher. Yes, sir, I respected him. He had a Brain. He had a Grasp of Finance. Over and over again I've said it: Mr. Fletcher had a Flair. That's the word. And now he's gone."
"Yes," said Hannasyde unemotionally. "As you say. You did a good deal of business with him, I understand?"
Mr. Budd managed to convey by a glance out of his astute little eyes and a gesture of the hands which betrayed his race, an answer in which assent was mingled with deprecation.
"What kind of business?" said Hannasyde.
Mr. Budd leaned forward, resting his arms upon his desk, and replied in a confidential tone: "Strictly private, Mr. Hannasyde!" He looked slyly at Hannasyde. "You take my meaning? There isn't a soul in this world I'd discuss a client's affairs with, least of all Mr. Fletcher's, but when a thing like this happens, I see it's different. I'm discreet. I have to be discreet. If I weren't, where do you think I'd be? You don't know; I don't know, but it wouldn't be where I am today. But I'm on the side of law and order. I realise it's my duty to assist the police where and how I can. My duty as a citizen. That's why I'm going to make an exception to my rule of silence. Now, you're a broad-minded man, Mr. Hannasyde. You're a man of experience. You know that everything that goes on in the City doesn't get published in the Financial Yews." He shook with amusement, and added: "Not by a long chalk!"
"I am aware, certainly, that a not-over-scrupulous man in Mr. Fletcher's position - he was upon several boards, I think? - might find it convenient to employ an agent to buy on his behalf stocks which he would not like it to be known that he had bought," replied Hannasyde.
Mr. Budd's eyes twinkled at him. "You know everything, don't you, Mr. Hannasyde? But that's it. That's it in a nutshell. You may not approve of it, I may not approve of it, but what has it to do with us, after all?"
"It has this much to do with you, that Mr. Fletcher was in the habit of employing you in that manner."
Budd nodded. "Quite right. I don't deny it. Where would be the sense in that? My business is to obey my clients' instructions, and that's what I do, Mr. Hannasyde, asking no questions."