The Inspector rose, and after eyeing his chief for a pregnant moment, addressed himself to the vase of pampas-grass in a musing tone. “If I had to explain why I like my present job, I'm blessed if I could do it!”
“If you're thinking the B.B.C. is going to ask you to take part in a programme, you needn't worry!” retorted Hemingway. “They won't!”
“How Sandy Grant put up with it as long as he did I don't know!” said Harbottle.
“That's all right, Horace: he knew if he stuck to me he'd precious soon get promoted.”
“It's a fact your assistants do,” admitted Harbottle grudgingly.
“Of course they do! Recommending them for promotion is the only way I can get rid of them. Come on up to bed!”
On the following morning, Inspector Harbottle betook himself to Sampson Warrenby's office, and Hemingway went round to the police-station, where, after putting through a call to Headquarters, he had an interview with the Chief Constable, and received a brief report from Sergeant Knarsdale.
The Sergeant had already despatched the bullet, with its cartridge-case, which he had fired from Gavin Plenmeller's rifle, to London, but said frankly that he was not hopeful. “I wouldn't like to say, not for sure, without seeing them under the comparison-microscope,” he told Hemingway, “but I think they'll find there's some marks on this cartridge-case I couldn't spot on the other. Got any more for me, sir?”
“Sergeant Carsethorn will be bringing in three more this morning, unless they've got unaccountably mislaid.”
Knarsdale grinned. “Regular arsenal we'll have here!”
“You don't know the half of it! The Inspector's got thirty-seven on his list.”
“Ah, well! we'll be able to get up a competition,” said the Sergeant, who knew his Chief Inspector.
“That's right: I'm just off to Woolworth's to buy some nice prizes for you!” said Hemingway, and left him chuckling gently.
Ten minutes' walk brought the Chief Inspector to Sampson Warrenby's office. A guide was offered, but as he was informed that he had only to cross the market-place to South Street, which was the main shopping-street in Bellingham, and to walk down it until he reached East Street, which intersected it, he declined the offer, and set off alone. A large number of country omnibuses were ranked in the market-place, and South Street was already congested with all those who had come into the town to do the week's shopping. Hemingway caught a glimpse of Miss Patterdale, stalking into a grocer's, with a large basket on her arm; and a minute later he met Gavin Plenmeller, emerging from the portals of a bank.
“Good heavens! Scotland Yard in person!” exclaimed Gavin, causing everyone within earshot to turn and stare avidly at Hemingway. “But what are you doing, frittering away your time in idle sightseeing, Chief Inspector?”
“Yes, it's easy to see why you aren't, so to say, popular with Sergeant Carsethorn, sir,” said Hemingway, eyeing him grimly. “Pity you forgot your megaphone!”
Gavin laughed. “I am so sorry!” he mocked, and passed on up the street.
Hemingway proceeded on his way, and soon arrived at Sampson Warrenby's office in East Street. Here he was received by a junior clerk, and afforded two stenographers and the office boy their second thrill of the day. All three contrived to catch a glimpse of him, as he was led to Sampson Warrenby's room, and although the glimpse was a brief one it was sufficient to enable the elder of the two damsels to state that he had eyes that looked right through you, and to convince the younger that if she were summoned before him to answer any questions she wouldn't be able to speak a word, on account of her being very high-strung, as anyone who knew her could testify. The office boy said in a very boastful way that it would take more than a C.I.D. man to scare him, after which he went off to the Post Office with two unimportant letters, his mind being troubled with a horrid fear that from so high-ranking an official not one of his youthful peccadilloes could remain hidden.
Meanwhile, the Chief Inspector had joined his subordinate in Sampson Warrenby's room, and had made the acquaintance of Mr. Coupland, the head clerk.
Mr. Coupland was a thin little man, with sparse, grizzled hair, and anxious face. He greeted the Chief Inspector nervously, and said: “This is a shocking business! I can't get over it. As I've been saying to the Inspector, I don't know what's going to happen, I'm sure, Mr. Warrenby not having a partner. It's very worrying, very! I really don't know what I ought to do. Not when we've cleared up what we have on hand.”
“Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there,” said Hemingway. “Busy practice, this?”
“Oh, very! Very busy indeed!” Mr. Coupland said earnestly. “The biggest practice in Bellingham, and growing so—well, Mr. Warrenby was talking of having to take a partner. And now this! Well, I don't seem able to believe it's happened, and that's a fact!”
“Came as a surprise to you, did it?”
The clerk blinked at him. “Oh, yes, it did indeed! More like a shock, really. Well, as I say, I can't realise it. I keep thinking Mr. Warrenby will come walking in any moment, wanting to know if the Widdringham lease has been posted, and— But, of course, he won't.”
He glanced up, with an uncertain smile, and was disconcerted to find himself the object of a bright, piercing scrutiny. He did his best to meet it, the smile fading from his face.
“Been his head clerk for long?”
“Ever since he started practice in Bellingham,” said Mr. Coupland, with a touch of pride.
“And you didn't know that he had any enemies?”
“No—no, indeed I didn't! Mr. Warrenby wasn't one to take people into his confidence. Even in practice, there were always some things he preferred to deal with himself. He was a—a very energetic, forceful man, Chief Inspector.”
“By what I've heard he was a man who made a lot of enemies.”
“Yes, I believe—that is, as to his private affairs I couldn't say, but professionally, of course, he wasn't well-liked. He was very successful, you see, and that made for a good deal of jealousy. On the Council too, and all the committees he sat on—well, in everything, really, he would have his own way, and—perhaps I shouldn't say this, but—but I fear he wasn't always very scrupulous in his methods. He once said to me that there were few things he enjoyed more than making people dance when he pulled their strings, and, of course, that sort of thing doesn't make a man popular. He always treated me very well, and all the staff, but I couldn't but wonder sometimes at the trouble he'd go to to discover everything about the people he came into contact with. I ventured to ask him once, but he only said you could never know when it might be useful.”
“Blackmail?” asked Hemingway bluntly.
“Oh! Oh, no, I wouldn't say that! I never saw anything to make me suspect—it always seemed more to me as though it amused him to make people he didn't like uncomfortable by letting them see he knew something about them they wouldn't wish to be known. Oh, quite trivial things—I don't mean to suggest—I daresay you know the sort of thing I mean, Chief Inspector. There aren't many of us who haven't ever done anything we wouldn't be a bit ashamed to have known. If you understand me!”
“I understand you all right. And you were surprised when you heard someone had shot this pocket-Hitler of yours?”
Mr. Coupland looked startled. “Yes, indeed, I was! Oh, dear, I hope I haven't given you a wrong impression! I didn't mean to say that Mr. Warrenby did anything to make anyone want to murder him! Often he would say things more by way of a joke than anything: twitting on about some little misfortune or mistake. Well, he's done that to me, and I won't deny it did make one angry, but—but there was nothing in it really!”
“I see,” said Hemingway. “Well, Mr. Coupland, I don't have to tell you that it's your duty to give me any assistance or information you can, so I'll put it straight to you: have you any reason to suspect that he may have been blackmailing—or whatever you like to call it!—anyone, at the time of his death?”