"I hope you will do more than that," replied the lawyer.
"Now, if you please, I should like to have a word with your aunt. Perhaps you could take me to her."
Neville obligingly rose, and opened the door for him. They passed out of the room together, and Sergeant Hemingway, who had been standing silent in the window, said: "Who's the bit of chewed string, Chief?"
"The heir," answered Hannasyde. "Neville Fletcher."
"Oh! well, I don't grudge it him. He looks as though he hasn't got tuppence to rub together, let alone hardly having the strength to stand up without holding on to something."
"You shouldn't go by appearances, Sergeant," said Hannasyde, a twinkle in his eye. "That weary young man holds the record for the high jump. Got a half-blue at Oxford, so the solicitor informed me."
"You don't say! Well, I wouldn't have thought it, that's all. And he's the heir? What did I tell you? Motive Number One."
"I'll remember it if I draw a blank on that unknown visitor," promised Hannasyde. "Meanwhile, we've found this little lot."
The Sergeant came to the desk, and looked over Hannasyde's shoulder at three slips of paper, all signed by Helen North. "IOUs," he said. "Well, well, well, she did splash money about, didn't she? Know what I think, Super? There's a nasty smell of blackmail hanging round these bits of paper. I believe friend Ichabod wasn't so far off the mark after all, with his pursuit-of-evil stuff."
"My name is not Ichabod, Sergeant, but Malachi," said Glass stiffly, from the window.
"It had to be," said the Sergeant. "What price those footprints, Chief?"
"The medical evidence goes to show that it is in the highest degree improbable that a woman could have struck the blow which killed Ernest Fletcher. Still, I agree that these notes will bear looking into."
"Young Neville know anything about this Helen North?"
"I haven't asked him. In the event of those IOUs having no bearing on the case, I'm not anxious to stir up any mud." He glanced up to see Glass staring at him with knit brows. "Well? Does the name convey anything to you?"
"There's a man of that name living with his wife not five minutes' walk from this house," replied Glass slowly.
The Sergeant pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Hannasyde said: "Know anything about them?"
"No, sir."
"Address?"
"You will find the house in the road which runs parallel to Maple Grove. It is called the Chestnuts."
Hannasyde jotted it down. The Sergeant, meanwhile, was turning over a collection of photographs and snapshots laid on the desk. "Looks like you weren't so far out, Glass," he remarked. "I have to hand it to the late Ernest. He certainly knew how to pick 'em. Regular harem!" He picked up a large portrait of a dazzling blonde, dressed, apparently, in an ostrich-feather fan, and regarded it admiringly. That's Lily Logan, the dancer. What a figure!"
Glass averted his eyes with a shudder. "Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned? As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion!"
"That's what you think," said Hemingway, laying Lily Logan down, and looking critically at another smiling beauty. "Went the pace a bit, didn't he? Hullo!" His eyes had alighted on the portrait of a curly-headed brunette. He picked it up. "Seems to me I've seen this dame before."
"As his female acquaintance seems to have consisted largely of chorus girls, that's not surprising," said Hannasyde dryly.
"Yours lovingly, Angela," read out the Sergeant. "Angela…' He scratched his chin meditatively. "Got something at the back of my mind. Do you seem to know that face, Chief?"
Hannasyde studied the photograph for a moment. "It does look a little familiar," he admitted. "Some actress, I daresay. We'll check up on them presently."
Hemingway held the photograph at arm's length. "No, I'm pretty sure I don't connect her with the stage. No use asking you, Glass, I suppose?"
"I do not wish to look upon the face of a lewd woman," Glass said harshly. "Her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword."
"Look here, what's the matter with you?" demanded the Sergeant. "Some actress given you the air, or what?"
"I have no dealings with actresses."
"Well, then, stopp panning them. How do you know anything about this poor girl's end, anyway?" He laid the portrait down.
"Anything else, Chief?"
"Nothing so far."
At this moment the door opened and Miss Fletcher came in. She was dressed in deep mourning, and her plump cheeks were rather pale, but she smiled sweetly at Hannasyde. "Oh, Superintendent - you are a Superintendent, aren't you?"
He had risen to his feet, and unobtrusively slid the big blotter over the heap of photographs. "Yes, that's right, madam."
She looked at the mass of papers on the desk. "Oh dear, what a lot you must have to do! Now, tell me, would you like a little refreshment?"
He declined it, which seemed to disappoint her, and asked her civilly if she wished to speak to him.
"Well, yes," she admitted. "Only any time will do. You're busy now, and I mustn't disturb you."
"I'm quite at your disposal, Miss Fletcher. Won't you sit down? All right, Glass: you can wait outside."
"You have such a kind face," Miss Fletcher told him. "Quite unlike what one expected. I feel I can talk to you. Are you sure you won't have something? A little coffee and a sandwich?"
"No, really, thank you. What was it you wanted to say to me, Miss Fletcher?"
"I'm afraid you'll say I'm wasting your time. So silly of me not to have asked dear Mr. Lawrence while he was here! We have known him for so many years that I always say he is more like a friend than a solicitor, though of course there is no reason why he shouldn't be both, as indeed I hope he feels he is. It was particularly foolish of me, because it is just the sort of thing he would know."
"What is it, Miss Fletcher?" asked Hannasyde, breaking into the gentle flow of words.
"Well, it's the reporters," she confided. "Poor things, one knows they have their living to earn, and it must be very disagreeable work, when one comes to think of it, and one doesn't want to be unkind -'
"Are they worrying you?" interrupted Hannasyde. "All you have to do is to tell your butler to say that you have no statement to make."
"It seems so very disobliging," she said doubtfully. "And one of them looks dreadfully under-nourished. At the same time, I should very much dislike to see my photograph in the papers."
"Of course. The less you say to them the better, Miss Fletcher."
"Well, that's what I thought," she said. "Only my nephew is so naughty about it. It's only his fun, but you never know how much people will believe, do you? I suppose you wouldn't just hint to him that he oughtn't to do it? I feel that what you said would carry more weight than what I say."
"What's he been up to?" asked Hannasyde.
"Well, he's told one of the reporters that he's employed here as the Boots, and when the man asked him his name he said it was Crippen, only he didn't want it to be known."
Hannasyde chuckled. "I don't think I should worry very much about that, Miss Fletcher."
"Yes, but he told another of them that he came from Yugoslavia, and was here on very secret business. In fact, he's in the front garden now, telling three of them a ridiculous story about international intrigue, and my brother at the back of it. And they're taking it down in their notebooks. Neville's such a marvellous actor, and of course he speaks Serbian, from having travelled in the Balkans. But I don't think he ought to deceive those poor men, do you?"
"No, I don't," said Hannasyde. "It's most unwise to play jokes on the gentlemen of the Press. Hemingway, go and ask Mr. Fletcher if I can have a word with him, will you?"
"Thank you so much!" said Miss Fletcher gratefully. "Poor Neville, one always has to remember that he hasn't known a mother's love. I feel that accounts for so much, don't you? Not that he isn't a dear boy, of course, and I'm very fond of him, but he is like so many of the young people nowadays, so strangely heartless! Nothing seems to matter to him, not even a thing like this." Her lips trembled; she groped for her handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes with it. "You must forgive me: I was very much attached to my dear brother. It doesn't seem to me as though any of this can really have happened."