"How long did it take you to work that one out?" demanded Hemingway offensively.
The Inspector continued, unmoved: "And it means that either the instrument was knocked from the table in a struggle, or that someone lifted it, and dropped it. For why?"
"You can rule out the struggle: there wasn't one. If that had been how that receiver came to be hanging down to the floor, the whole table would have been kicked over, and it wasn't. It looks as if someone deliberately lifted it off the table, and let it hang." He laid down the photograph he had been studying. "Why? Fair-sized chap, Seaton-Carew, wasn't he? Whoever planned to do him in wanted to be sure of getting him in what you might call a convenient position. If you were called away in the middle of a game of Bridge to take a telephonecall, what would you do?"
"I do not play Bridge.".
"Well, shinty, or whatever your unnaturall game is called! You'd pick up the receiver, standing! You might even be facing quite the wrong way for the assassin. But if you found the receiver hanging down beside the table, the way it was, what would be the easiest way for you to pick it up? To sit down in the chair, placed so handy, of course! That would bring your neck well within the reach of a shorter person. And don't tell me that every one of the suspected persons, barring Terrible Timothy, was shorter than Seaton-Carew, because I've seen that for myself! I told you this wasn't going to do us any good. What's the time? Seven o'clock? Let's make a night of it, and have some breakfast! After that, we'll go round to this Jermyn Street address, and startle Mr. Seaton-Carew's man."
Before they set forth on this mission, the Inspector was obliged to present his disgusted chief with the information that the call from Doncaster had come from a public call-box.
"Which isn't at all the sort of thing I want to be told at this hour of the morning," remarked Hemingway, pouring himself out another cup of very strong tea. "Not that I'm surprised. The only thing that would surprise me about this case would be if I was to get a real lead."
"Whisht now, it is early yet!" said the Inspector soothingly.
"It isn't too early for me to recognise a thick fog when I see one!" retorted Hemingway. "To think I told Bob I was glad it wasn't another Pole getting funny with a knife! Now, that was easy!"
"Ay," agreed Grant. "There were so many motives you said there was no seeing the wood for the trees, I mind well. And three of the suspects with records as long as from here to the Border. Ah, well!"
"I don't know how it is," said Hemingway, "but whenever I get an assistant detailed to me he can't ever find anything better to do than to remember a lot of things I've said which it would do him more good to forget. I had a young fellow once with just that same habit, before the War it was, and do you know what happened to him? He had to leave the Force!"
"If it's Wake you're meaning," said Grant patiently, "I know well he left the Force, for he married a widow with a snug business, and already they have three, or it may be four, bairns."
"Well, let that be a lesson to you!" said Hemingway. "Stop trying to annoy me, and come to Jermyn Street!"
The morning papers were on sale by this time; as the police-car paused, in a traffic hold-up, before a newsagent's shop, flaring headlines caught the Chief Inspector's eye. One of the more popular journals sought to attract custom by the caption, written in arresting capitals: Murder at a Bridge-Party! Inspector Grant slid quickly out of the car, procured a copy of this enterprising news-sheet, and jumped back into the car as it moved forward.
"That," said Hemingway grimly, "must have been sent in before two o'clock this morning — if not earlier! Nice times we live in!"
Scanning the somewhat meagre information contained in the paragraphs beneath the headlines, Grant said: "I doubt this is the butler."
"Well, I don't!" said his superior. "There isn't any doubt at all about it! Come to think of it, butlers must make a pretty penny on the side. I wonder what they gave him for this tit-bit?"
"I do not know," said Grant conscientiously. "But it is in my mind that he would not have done this if he had been in the service of his last employer. Mind, I do not, myself, set any great store by a Sassenach, but I would say that Lord Minsterley was a gentleman-born, and would be respected by his servants! It is as I told you: they have no respect for Mrs. Haddington. There was a telephone in the butler's pantry. Content you, he sent the news before ever we arrived at that house."
"Why you should suppose that should content me I don't know, but never mind!" said Hemingway. "It only means the crime reporters will be badgering us a bit sooner than we looked for."
Mr. Seaton-Carew's flat, in a block of bachelors' chambers, was on the third floor. An electric lift bore the two police officers to this floor; and the door of the flat was opened to them by a willowy manservant, who, if he did not appear to be startled by their arrival, was certainly nervous. He said that he had been advised earlier of his master's death; and made haste to usher them into the sitting-room.
The flat was not extensive, consisting merely of two bedrooms, a dining-room, a sitting-room, and what were known as "the usual offices'. It was furnished in an expensive but undistinguished style, its amenities including mirrored panels in the bedroom, and the tiny hall; a plate-glass dining-table; numerous deep chairs covered in oxhide, and lavishly provided with velvet cushions; a glass-fronted bookcase, containing sets of standard authors in tooled calf bindings, which bore all the appearance of having been bought to form part of the room's decoration; an opulent radio-cabinet; several pictures in slightly exotic taste; and such repellent adjuncts as a standard lamp, upheld by a naked bronze female, an alabaster ashtray, surmounted by a silver aeroplane, and a cocktail-cabinet, furnished with an interior light, a bewildering array of bottles, and a complete set of glasses, all of which were embellished with erotic designs.
"In fact," said Hemingway, "the sort of decor that puts very funny ideas into one's head."
A cursory inspection of the flat yielded no clue to Seaton-Carew's profession. It was strangely impersonal, nor did a rapid survey of his pass-sheets, discovered in a drawer of the desk, provide Hemingway with an explanation of his obvious wealth. His investments seemed to be few and orthodox, but on the credit side were numerous sums briefly described as Cash.
"Up to no good," said the cynical Hemingway. "Or perhaps he was only bilking the Inland Revenue," he added charitably. "This place tells us nothing at all, Sandy."
The Inspector, who had gazed with an affronted eye upon the pictures adorning the walls of Mr. Seaton-Carew's bedroom, and who had been noticeably affected by the sybaritic aspect of his bathroom, replied austerely that it told him a great deal.
"That's only prejudice," said Hemingway. "The trouble with you is that you're not broadminded. Ever noticed that all pansies have exactly the same kind of manservant? Funny thing: you can spot 'em at a glance! We'll go and have a nice heart to heart with this specimen!"
But it was soon made manifest that Mr. Francis Caister had not been admitted into his master's confidence. Smoothing his thick, curly locks with one unquiet hand, he said that he had been in Seaton-Carew's employment for eighteen months, and that it had been a very pleasant situation, Mr. Seaton-Carew being a gentleman as was often out to meals. He did not think that his master had been in business. If he might, he would describe him as a gentleman of leisure. Questioned, he was a little vague on the subject of Seaton-Carew's visitors: he had had so many. He recalled Mr. Butterwick, however, and said, with a genteel cough, that that was a young gentleman as took things to heart, as one might say. Quite hysterical sometimes, he had been, particularly if he found another young gentleman, or, as it might be, a lady visiting Mr. Seaton-Carew.