"You're barmy! The policeman came by ages before," said Mr. Potter fondly. "Go on, put a sock in it! You don't remember nothing."
This opinion was shared by Sergeant Hemingway, who said disgustedly as soon as the couple had departed: "Nice pair of witnesses, I don't think! If they were carrying on the whole evening like they were when I found them, it's a wonder to me they saw anyone. Proper necking-party. I'm bothered if I know how people keep it up for the hours they do. The girl wants to see her picture in the papers, I've met her sort before. Potter's not much better, either. In fact, they're neither of them any good."
"Except that the girl did see a man in evening dress, which corroborates the coffee-stall proprietor's story. We'll see what the policeman has to say. If the girl was speaking the truth about his having passed just after she saw the man in evening dress, we may get somewhere."
But when Constable Mather, a freckle-faced and serious young man, came in, he said regretfully that when he passed up Barnsley Street he had seen nothing of any man in evening dress.
"There you are!" said Hemingway, exasperated. "What did I tell you? Just making up a good tale, that's all the silly little fool was doing."
Hannasyde addressed the young policeman. "When you passed, did you happen to notice whether the light was on in the basement of No. 43?"
"That's Mrs. Prim's," said Mather. "If you'll excuse me, I'll have to think a minute, sir."
The Sergeant regarded him with bird-like curiosity, and said: "Either you know or you don't."
The grave grey eyes came to rest on his face. "Not till I've walked up the road, sir. I'm doing that now - if you wouldn't mind waiting a minute. I find I can think back if I do that."
"Carry on," said Hannasyde, quelling the sceptical Sergeant with a frown.
There was a pause, during with PC Mather apparently projected his spirit back to Barnsley Street. At last he said with decision: "Yes, sir, it was. No. 39 - that's Mrs. Dugdale's - had a window open, but she's got bars up, so it didn't matter. Then the next house, which is No. 41, was all dark, and after that there was one with the basement light on. That was No. 43."
"I see," Hannasyde said. "You feel sure of that?"
"Yes, sir."
"You didn't hear any sounds coming from that basement room, or notice anything wrong?"
"No, sir. The blind was drawn down, and I didn't hear anything."
"If the light was on, the murderer may have been there," said the Sergeant. "In fact, it looks to me as though he was there, having done in Carpenter, waiting till you'd passed to make his escape."
The Constable looked distressed. "Yes, sir. I'm sure I'm very sorry."
"Not your fault," said Hannasyde, and dismissed him.
"Nice case, isn't it?" said the Sergeant. "Now we only want to find that the taxi-driver didn't happen to notice what his face looked like, and we'll be sitting pretty."
He was not destined to be disappointed. Some time later, when he and Hannasyde were back at Scotland Yard, a message was received to the effect that one Henry Smith, taxi-driver, while waiting in the rank in Glassmere Road, had been engaged by a gentleman in evening dress, and directed to drive to the Piccadilly Hotel. Whether his fare had actually entered the hotel, he was unable to say. He had not inspected the gentleman closely, but retained an impression of a man of medium height and build. He did not recall the man's face particularly; he was just an ordinary, nice-looking chap.
"Well, at any rate it can't have been Budd," remarked the Sergeant. "No one in their senses would call him nice-looking. We've drawn a blank on the finger-prints, Chief. Whoever did this job wore gloves."
"And no trace of the weapon," Hannasyde said, frowning. "A heavy, blunt instrument, wielded with considerable strength. In fact, exactly the same instrument that was used to kill Fletcher."
"It's nice to think we didn't overlook it at Greystones, at all events," said the Sergeant cheerfully. "The murderer must have walked off with it under his hat. Have you got anything out of Carpenter's papers?"
"Nothing that looks like being of much assistance. There's this."
The Sergeant took a limp, folded letter from him, and spread it open. A glance at the signature made him exclaim: "Angela! Well, well, well!"
The letter, which was undated, was not a long one. Written in a round, unformed hand, it began abruptly:
Charlie -By the time you get this I won't be at our old address anymore. I don't think you really care, but I wouldn't want to do it without telling you, because in spite of everything, and the wrong you have fallen into, dear Charlie, and the evil companions, and everything I don't ever forget the old times. But I know now it wasn't the real thing, because I have found the real thing, and I see everything differently. I shan't tell you his name, because I know you, Charlie, you are without truth and would make trouble if you could. Don't think it is because of the disgrace you have got into that I am leaving you, because I know now that love is as strong as death, and if it had been the real thing I would have stuck to you, because many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. They used to teach us that that bit and all the rest was about the Church, but I know better now."
The Sergeant read this missive, remarking as he gave it back to Hannasyde: "She had got it bad, hadn't she? Fancy anyone feeling that way about the late Ernest! Looks as though she must have written it when Charlie was in jug. What you might call corroborative evidence only. She probably did do herself in for love of the late Ernest, and Charlie was the sort of dirty little squirt who'd put the black on anyone if he saw his way to it. And where are we now? Do you take it that Carpenter saw the late Ernest murdered?"
"If he did, it raises one or two questions," replied Hannasyde. "Did the murderer not only see Carpenter, but also recognise him? Or did Carpenter recognise the murderer, and attempt to blackmail him?"
"Look here, Chief, are we casting North for the part, or are we assuming the murderer is an entirely new and unsuspected character, whom we haven't even laid eyes on?"
"How do I know? I admit, nearly everything points to North. Not quite, though. In favour of that theory, we have North's unexpected return to England, his unexplained movements on the night of the murder, Mrs. North's peculiar behaviour, and the presence of a man in Barnsley Street tonight who corresponds vaguely with his description. Against it, I think we ought to set North's character first. I have his sister-in-law's word for it that he's no fool, and I believe it. But what could be more blundering and foolish than to murder a second man in precisely the same way as he murdered the first?"
"I don't know so much," interrupted the Sergeant. "Come to think of it, it's worrying us a bit, isn't it? If he's the smart Alec you say he is, it might strike him as a pretty fruity idea to do in his victims as clumsily as he could. Moreover, it's not as dumb as it looks. He doesn't leave his finger-prints behind him, and he's got some trick of concealing his weapon which a conjurer couldn't better."
"Yes, I've thought of that," admitted Hannasyde. "But there are other points. Where and when did a man in his position come into contact with Carpenter?"
"At Greystones, on the night of the late Ernest's murder," replied the Sergeant promptly. "Look, Super! Supposing you forget Mrs. North's second instalment for the moment. Take it that Carpenter was hiding in the garden all the time she was with the late Ernest -'
"What the devil would he be hiding for, if he had come to blackmail Fletcher?"
The Sergeant thought for a moment. "How about his having hidden for exactly the same reason Mrs. North did? He may have been walking up the path when he heard her open the gate behind him -'