Inspector Grant's gaze shifted to the Chief Inspector's face. The Chief Inspector had two hobbies: one was the Drama; and the other, which he pursued to the awe, amusement, and exasperation of his colleagues, was Psychology. He had listened amiably to Mr. Butterwick's flow of words, but at this challenge he lost patience. "Yes, and Wendt, Münsterburg, Freud, and Rosanoff as well!" he replied tartly. "That's how I know you don't belong to the Autistic Type. I haven't had time yet to decide whether you're Anti-Social, or Cyclothymic, but I daresay I'll make up my mind about that presently."
This unexpected rejoinder threw Sydney off his balance. He said, with a titter: "How marvellous to meet a policeman interested in psychology! I think I'm definitely the Anti-Social, or Hysteric Type. I mean, I haven't a single illusion about myself. It's fatal not to face up to oneself, isn't it? For instance, although I adore Michael Angelo I do realise that that's probably an expression of empathy-wish, in the same way that -"
"Sit down, sir!" said Hemingway.
Sydney obeyed him, passing a hand over his waving fair locks, and then mechanically straightening his tie. "Do ask me any questions you like!" he invited. "I shall answer them absolutely honestly!"
"That's very sensible of you, sir," said the Chief Inspector dryly. "Suppose you were to tell me, as a start, what was the cause of your quarrel with Mr. Seaton-Carew last night?"
"He had hurt me," replied Sydney simply.
"How did he manage to do that?"
"I hadn't seen him for three days, and he wouldn't speak to me on the telephone. That was the sort of thing he used to do, when he was in that mood. Teasing me, you know, but not really meaning to hurt. He told me once that I took life too hard, and I suppose it was true, but -"
"You thought he was sick of you, didn't you?" interrupted Hemingway ruthlessly. "Oh - ! Not really!"
Hemingway glanced at the notes under his hand. "You said to him, I suppose that means you're fed up with me! and he replied, All right, I am! Is that correct, sir?"
The colour rushed up to the roots of Sydney's hair. He exclaimed in a trembling voice: "How do I know what I said? I suppose you got that out of that little bitch of a Haddington girl!"
"Do you, sir? Why?"
"I've no doubt Cynthia Haddington imagines that just because he took a little notice of her Dan was in love with her!" said Sydney, trembling slightly, and quite ignoring the Chief Inspector's question. "Well, he wasn't! He wasn't! And if she's stuffed you up with some tale of my being jealous of her, it just makes me want to laugh! That's all!"
Anything further removed from laughter than Mr. Butterwick's aspect would have been hard to have found; but Hemingway, while making a mental note of this fact, forbore to pursue the matter. He merely requested Sydney to describe to him what had been his movements from the moment of his leaving his table to get himself a drink to the moment of his re-entry into the drawingroom.
"Oh, of course, if it interests you -" said Sydney, shrugging his shoulders.
"A Chruitheir!" uttered Inspector Grant under his breath.
"There's really nothing to tell," said Sydney. "We had finished playing that particular hand at my table, and I seized the opportunity to go down to the dining-room, that's all. I didn't see anyone, except the butler, if that's what you want to know."
"Didn't see anyone, sir? I understand that you had some conversation with Mrs. Haddington, at the top of the stairs."
"Oh, that! I thought you meant, did I see Dan, or anyone else, who might have killed him. Yes, I believe I did exchange a word or two with Mrs. Haddington, but I don't remember what was said. Quite unimportant, in any case."
"Was anyone else on the landing, or the stairs, when you came out of the drawing-room, sir?"
"I really don't remember. I don't think so."
"What was Mrs. Haddington doing on the landing?" "Good God, how should I know? She was going up to the second floor - in fact, she started to go up when I went down."
"Miss Birtley, I take it, had gone down before you followed her?"
"Yes - that is, I suppose she must have, because, to tell you the truth, I don't recall seeing her. I daresay she may have been there: I wouldn't notice. And, of course, since it all happened mere trivialities have passed from my mind."
"Did you hear the telephone-bell ringing, sir?"
"No, but I probably wouldn't, because it's got a muffled bell, and only makes a sort of burring noise."
"Is that so? How do you happen to know that, sir?" Sydney stared at him for a moment. The smile wavered on his lips. "Oh - oh, this isn't my first visit to the house!"
"I see. And you didn't hear it tonight, didn't know the call was for Mr. Seaton-Carew, and didn't hear anything that passed between Mrs. Haddington and Miss Birtley? I want to get this quite straight, sir, so that Inspector Grant can take it down accurately, and we shan't have to make a lot of corrections later."
Sydney glanced at the impassive Inspector, and from him to Hemingway. Once more he smoothed his hair.
"No, I don't know what they said. I mean, now you bring it to my mind I do seem to remember vaguely that Miss Birtley was there, but that's definitely all. If you're thinking that I knew she'd gone to fetch Dan up to take the call, and that it was I who murdered him in that ghastly way - well, you're not only wrong, but it's utterly absurd! If you must know, I was terribly upset by the whole affair - anyone will tell you that! It was the most appalling shock: in fact, for a moment I damned nearly fainted!" He glanced at Inspector Grant, seated with a notebook in one hand, and a pencil in the other, and burst out angrily: "It's no use asking me to sign a statement, because I won't! I'm too terribly shattered to know what happened this evening!"
"Well, you haven't made a statement yet, have you, sir?" said Hemingway. "All you've done is to answer a few questions, and hand me a few lies, which it's only fair to tell you I don't believe."
"You've no right to say that!" Sydney declared, a trifle shrilly. "You've no shadow of right to talk to me like that!"
"Well, if that's what you think, sir, all you have to do is to lodge a complaint against me with the Department," replied Hemingway. "You'll have to convince them that you didn't hand me a lot of silly lies, of course - and, come to think of it, you might just as well convince me of that, and save us both a heap of unpleasantness. And if you'd stop thinking you'll be pinched for murder if you admit you knew Mr. Seaton-Carew was telephoning in this room, we'd get on much faster. There isn't any question but that Mrs. Haddington and Miss Birtley both knew it, but I can't arrest the three of you, nor I don't want to!"
"O God!" Sydney ejaculated, and, to the patent horror of Inspector Grant, dropped his head in his hands, and broke into sobs.
"Och, what a truaghan!" muttered Grant. "Ist, Ist, nach ist thu?"
"Now, don't you start to annoy me!" his superior admonished him. "Come, now, sir, there's no need for you to take on like that!"
"I know you think I murdered him!" Sydney said, in a choked voice. "All right, think it! Arrest me! What do you think I care, now Dan's dead? Oh, Dan, oh, Dan, I didn't mean it!"
This extremely embarrassing scene caused the Inspector so much discomfort that he could only be glad to hear Hemingway recommending Mr. Butterwick to go home, and to bed. He ushered him out of the room, and came back himself, mopping his brow. "Indeed, sir, I was glad to see you get rid of that one!" he remarked. "Though I would not say Pershore was wrong when he thought it possible he was the man we are after. To my mind, he would be likely to weep the eyes out of his head if he had killed his friend."
"Very likely. And to my mind it was a case of drink taken; and waste my time on maudlin drunks, without a bit of solid evidence to go on, I will not!"
"He was not drunk precisely," said the Inspector, with native caution. "I should say, however, that he had had a dram this night."