“You aren't going to tell me that you think a gentle little thing like that could have anything to do with this?” said the Inspector, shocked.
“No, I'm not. I've got what wouldn't hurt you: an open mind! There's a great deal in what Drybeck says, and the fact that he said it because he's in the devil of a funk is neither here nor there.”
“He was that all right.”
“Of course he was. So would you be in his shoes. He's worked it all out, and whether he shot Warrenby or not I don't know, because I haven't got second sight, but what I do know is that he's proved to himself that he could have done it, in the time. Which saves me having to prove it for myself.”
“He made one slip,” said the Inspector, with satisfaction. “How did he know Warrenby was shot with a .22 rifle?”
“Yes, I can see you think he knew that because it was him did the shooting. You may be right, but it wouldn't surprise me if the whole village knows it.”
“If they do, it's Dr. Warcop who's told them!” said the Sergeant, who had been listening intently. “Him or that fool, Hobkirk! The pair of them are so pleased with themselves for having been in on this that I wouldn't be surprised if they started giving talks about it on the air! A fat chance we shall have of rounding up all the .22s now that everyone's been tipped off! I ought to have done it the instant we got that bullet.”
“Well, don't take on about it!” recommended Hemingway. “Unless this bird we're after has broken loose from Broadmoor, you never had a chance of rounding up anything but a lot of innocent rifles. The best you could ever hope for was to find someone who did have a .22, and has unaccountably mislaid it. What are we sitting here for?”
“Red Lion, sir,” ventured the driver.
“You should have said so before. Come on, Horace! We'll see what the lads of the village have got to say about this horrible crime. Properly speaking, we ought to leave you outside, Carsethorn, because you'll very likely cramp my style. However, I daresay they've all had a good look at the car by now, so you may as well go in with us.”
“Well, there's one person as has seen us, sir,” said the Sergeant, after a glance at the Red Lion. “That's Mr. Plenmeller, sitting in the window. I don't know but what I wouldn't as soon wait in the car.”
“What you want to do is get the better of these prejudices of yours,” said Hemingway severely. “What with your having it in for this author, and the Inspector getting a down on poor old Mr. Drybeck—as helpful a gentleman as I ever met—you'll very likely infect me, between the pair of you. You come and introduce me to the local crime-expert!”
This, in the event, proved to be unnecessary. No sooner had the three officials entered the bar-parlour than Gavin Plenmeller, who was standing drinks to Miss Dearham, Major Midgeholme, and young Mr. Haswell, hailed them with every evidence of delight. “If it isn't my friend, Sergeant Carsethorn, with—unless my instinct betrays me, which it rarely does—dignitaries from Scotland Yard! Come over here, Sergeant! You'll never guess what we've been talking about! George, serve these gentlemen, and chalk it up to my account! That,” he added, addressing himself to Hemingway, after one piercing scrutiny of his face, “is to put you under a sense of obligation, in case you decide to arrest me. You're Chief Inspector Hemingway: you had charge of the Guisborough case. At some future date, I shall do my best to get you into a malleable condition: I would give much to know the details of the evidence which was suppressed. I was in court every day. Let me make you known, by the way, to Miss Dearham! She, like Mr. Haswell here, doesn't come into this case, much to her regret, and quite unlike Major Midgeholme, whose motive for shooting Sampson Warrenby, though obscure, you will no doubt discover.”
“Really, Plenmeller, your tongue runs away with you!” said the Major stiffly. “Good-evening, Chief Inspector. Sad business, this.”
“What a mendacious thing to say!” remarked Gavin. “When we are all perfectly delighted! Or did you mean sad for Warrenby?”
“Yes, I rather got the impression that Mr. Warrenby wasn't what you might call popular,” said Hemingway. “Good-evening, Major: I've had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Midgeholme already.”
The Major looked startled. “You've been to see my wife?”
“Not properly speaking, sir: no. I met her up at Fox House. With Ulysses and Untidy,” he added calmly. “Very handsome little dogs. Prize-winners, I understand.”
“The way the police ferret out information!” murmured Gavin, causing the Major to flush slightly. “But I don't think Mrs. Midgeholme ought to have forced Ulysses to visit the scene of his humiliation. Rather sadistic, don't you agree?”
“No, I do not!” snapped the Major.
Abby turned her candid gaze upon Gavin, and spoke with paralysing frankness. “Definitely unfunny,” she said. “Why don't you try to find out who really did it, instead of making up fantastic stories about people who couldn't possibly have done it? You ought to be able to: you write awfully clever thrillers. I haven't read any of them myself, actually, but that's what everyone says.”
“Attagirl!” said Charles admiringly.
“What a low, nasty backhander!” remarked Gavin. “I shall ignore it. When I write my clever thrillers, ducky, I have the advantage of knowing from the start who did the murder. In fact, I know who is going to do it. It makes quite a difference, and serves to show how depressingly unlike life is fiction. My suspects all have lovely motives, too. You never met such a set of crooks as I can (and do) assemble in one restricted scene. Why, I once wrote a good stabbing-mystery set in a village just like this, and even the verger turned out to have the murkiest kind of past! The people of Thornden are too respectable for me. I won't say dull, leaving that to be inferred.”
“Would you describe yourself as dull, sir?” enquired Hemingway. “It isn't the word I'd have chosen.”
“No, or respectable either, but when I tried to cast myself for the role of chief suspect I met with nothing but discouragement. The Sergeant even snubbed me. I wonder that beer isn't choking you, Sergeant.”
“What you did, sir, if you'll pardon me saying so, was to try to pull my leg,” retorted the Sergeant.
“Not at all. As an amateur of crime, I felt I ought to be the culprit. Now, don't, anybody, talk to me of that Pole, said to be walking out with Mother's-good-girl! Any student of crime knows that the guilty man is never the mysterious foreigner. Besides, he's so obvious! If I can't have myself or Mrs. Midgeholme, I'll have the Squire, I think.”
“Here, I say! Draw it mild!” protested Charles.
“It's silly,” said Abby flatly. “He's just about the most unlikely person you could possibly think of.”
“He is quite the most unlikely person I can think of,” Gavin corrected her. “Therein lies his charm. I am not interested in the obvious. Have another pint, Chief Inspector!”
“No, I won't do that, thank you, sir. But I find all you're saying very interesting—speaking as a professional. Speaking as an amateur, why do you feel you ought to be the culprit?”
Gavin regarded him with approval. “You're restoring my shaken faith in the police-force, Chief Inspector. Or are you merely humouring me?”
“Oh, no, sir! It isn't every day I meet one of you gentlemen who write about crime, and I'd like to know how a real crime strikes you.”
“Disappointingly. There is nothing to solve except the comparatively uninteresting matter of the identity of the murderer. No hermetically sealed room, no unusual weapon, too few seemingly unshakeable alibis.”
“Well, I think the identity of the murderer is far more interesting than those other things.” objected Abby. “Fascinating, when one actually knows all the people!” she added naively.
“Ah, yes, but you, my sweet, are a female! Persons are more interesting to you than problems, will you mind very much if the guilty man proves to be some quite low, insignificant creature you've never even heard of?”