'Stop being a bloody martyr and get on with it,' interjected Dalziel.
'So he rang Lochart police-station for himself on Tuesday. Lauder told him emphatically no such person existed. Next thing, he looks in the paper and sees Lewis is dead. And on Wednesday morning, Nordrill announce they're stopping work in Scotland. He tried to ring me, God knows why. I wish that… anyway, by Wednesday lunch-time he'd got it into his head that the important thing was to see his wife well cared for financially. With Lewis dead, he could see little hope of regaining his money. But he was well insured, so off he set down the Al, bent on killing himself and making it look accidental. Fortunately he was determined no one else would be affected, so instead of making sure of it going across the central reservation and getting a seventy plus seventy crash, he went over the edge. When he realized the news of his accident had put Mavis in hospital, he saw what a bloody fool he'd been. And he talked.'
'Christ. And we laugh at stories of Americans buying the Eiffel Tower!' Dalziel had commented. 'What about Cowley? Did Sturgeon mention him?'
'No. Knows nothing about him as far as I could make out.'
'But you saw him with Atkinson? We'd better have a word. I was going to see him anyway. Let's get him to ourselves. Five-thirty, that's probably when they close. That give you enough time? Right. I'll see you there.'
He joined Dalziel in his car by the kerbside just on five-thirty.
'What if he's not in, sir?' he asked, looking across the street at Lewis and Cowley's offices.
'He'll be in all right,' said Dalziel cheerily. 'I rang him up and made an appointment.'
'Oh,' said Pascoe. Then, realizing he had let his surprise show, he added, 'I thought you'd be wanting to catch him off guard, that's all.'
'What? Don't be soft, lad. He doesn't know we're coming. He's expecting a rich touch in search of a house! Come on.'
The signal was the appearance at the door of the two secretaries, Marjory Clayton and Jane Collingwood.
The latter recognized Pascoe as he and Dalziel strode purposefully across the street and he gave her a little wave.
'Mr Cowley!' bellowed Dalziel in the outer office.
The door marked Cowley opened and the man stood there, his customer-reception smile slackening into puzzlement as he caught sight of Pascoe.
'Mr Cowley? I'm Detective-Superintendent Dalziel. We haven't met, though I believe you know my sergeant here. May we have a few moments of your precious time?'
Dalziel advanced powerfully so that Cowley had to step aside or be crushed. Pascoe meekly followed his leader into the inner office. It was expensively furnished in a rather unintegrated way. An oval-shaped Indian carpet caught at the feet. On the leather inlaid desk an onyx cigarette-box stood open, obviously newly filled. Dalziel picked it up and looked at it admiringly.
'Nice,' he said. 'Is it convenient to talk with you now, sir?'
'I am expecting a client,' began Cowley, glancing at the ormolu clock resting on a shelf above what looked like the room's original fireplace, carved out of York stone before it started getting pretty. Something had been worrying Pascoe and now he recalled that on his previous visit just over twenty-four hours earlier, Cowley's room had been the other one. He had wasted no time. And this room clearly bore the mark of the kind of man Lewis had been if Dalziel's sources were good. He remembered also the kind of thing stolen from Lewis’s house. It all fitted a picture of a man who enjoyed the good things of life with a fine indiscrimination.
'Just a couple of minutes, please,' said Dalziel, adding magnanimously, 'we shall leave, of course, as soon as your client arrives.'
He put down the cigarette-box and seated himself in the most comfortable-looking chair. Cowley, butler-like, picked up the box and took it to Dalziel.
'Cigarette, Superintendent?'
'Thank you, no. It's a habit I've broken.'
Since when? wondered Pascoe. This morning at the earliest! Some people break habits quicker than others.
'Now, Mr Cowley, the thing is this. We're anxious to get in touch with an acquaintance of Mr Lewis's, a Mr John Atkinson. Do you know him by any chance?'
'Well, yes. I think so. If it's the same one. Hang on a moment, will you?'
He rose, opened a rather over-ornate walnut cabinet and took from it a folder.
'Here we are. Atkinson, John. This was one of perhaps half a dozen clients Matt took a very personal interest in. Looking at the file, I remember why now. He met Mr Atkinson up at Lochart, that's where he had his cottage, you know. That's one of the addresses we had for him, the Lochart Hotel.'
'And the other?' asked Dalziel.
'Another hotel. The Shelley in Bayswater. That's in London.'
'Thank you,' said Dalziel. 'What was Mr Atkinson's interest down here?'
'He was nearing retiring age, I believe. Had known the area a long time ago and talking with Matt had revived old memories. So he was looking round in a rather desultory fashion. You know, popping in occasionally and breaking his journey between London and Scotland.'
'When did you last see him, sir?' asked Dalziel.
'Only yesterday morning. In fact, I think he was here when your sergeant came. If only you'd thought to mention him then, Sergeant.'
Dalziel looked reprovingly at Pascoe and shook his head.
'Can't be helped. Why was he here, sir?'
'Why, he'd read about Matt's death, of course, and come down specially to find out what had happened. He called on Mrs Lewis, I believe. He was most upset. The odd thing was he'd turned up by the chance on Monday afternoon and seen Matt then when he came back from Scotland.'
'By chance you say?' said Dalziel, exchanging glances with Pascoe.
'Oh yes. He just drifted in. He didn't realize the office is normally closed that afternoon. So he chatted for a while, saw that we were busy, and went on his way. He was very struck by the coincidence.'
'Yes, yes, he would be. Yesterday you said he came down, didn't you. From Scotland, you mean?'
'I've no idea,' said Cowley. 'Possibly.'
He took a cigarette and lit it from a table lighter which matched the box.
'Which would mean he was on his way up from London on Monday.'
'I suppose so.'
'But he wasn't in Lochart on Monday or Tuesday, Mr Cowley,' said Dalziel mildly. 'We checked.'
'Perhaps it was the other way round.'
'You mean he came down from Lochart on Monday? And called in here, knowing his friend Mr Lewis was still in Scotland?'
'I don't think they lived in each other's pockets, Superintendent.'
'No. Of course not. Where did he stay overnight when he was house-hunting?'
'Really, I've no idea. This was Matt's client, as I've told you. I only met the man two or three times. And then just for a couple of minutes. Is that all you wanted to ask me, Superintendent!'
He stood up, looking very irritated, stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at his watch. Dalziel ignored the hint.
'Have you ever been to Lochart yourself, Mr Cowley?'
'No. Never.' There might have been a hesitation, thought Pascoe. An idea was forming in his mind.
'Do you know a Mr Edgar Sturgeon?' he interjected. Dalziel looked sharply at him, then settled back in his chair as if to enjoy the act.
'No. I don't think so,' said Cowley.
'Stocky. Grey-haired. Mid-sixties. Retired,' rattled off Pascoe.
'Sorry, he doesn't ring a bell.'
It was probably a daft idea, thought Pascoe, but he might as well try. He took out his notebook.
'I wonder if you can recall where you were on this week-end, sir,' he said. He read out the date of the meeting between Archie Selkirk and Sturgeon.