Scarsdale colored heavily and Monk realized he had lost any chance of cooperation from him.
"You exceed your authority!" Scarsdale snapped. "And you are impertinent. My private affairs are no concern of yours. Watch your tongue, or I shall be obliged to complain to your superiors." He looked at Monk and decided this was not a good idea. "The woman in question has no reason to lie," he said stiffly. "She came up alone and left alone, and saw no one at either time, except Grim-wade, the porter; and you can ascertain that from him. No one enters these buildings without his permission, you know." He sniffed very slightly. "This is not a common rooming house!" His eyes glanced for a second at the handsome furnishings, then back at Monk.
"Then it follows that Grimwade must have seen the murderer," Monk replied, keeping his eyes on Scarsdale's face.
Scarsdale saw the imputation, and paled; he was arrogant, and perhaps bigoted, but he was not stupid.
Monk took what he believed might well be his best chance.
"You are a gentleman of similar social standing"-he winced inwardly at his own hypocrisy-"and an immediate neighbor of Major Grey's; you must be able to tell me something about him personally. I know nothing."
Scarsdale was happy enough to change the subject, and in spite of his irritation, flattered.
"Yes, of course," he agreed quickly. "Nothing at all?"
"Nothing at all," Monk conceded.
"He was a younger brother of Lord Shelburne, you know?" Scarsdale's eyes widened, and at last he walked to the center of the room and sat down on a hard-backed, carved chair. He waved his arm vaguely, giving Monk permission to do so too.
"Indeed?" Monk chose another hard-backed chair so as not to be below Scarsdale.
"Oh yes, a very old family," Scarsdale said with relish. "The Dowager Lady Shelburne, his mother, of course, was the eldest daughter of the Duke of Ruthven, at least I think it was he; certainly the duke of somewhere."
"Joscelin Grey," Monk reminded him.
"Oh. Very pleasant fellow; officer in the Crimea, forgotten which regiment, but a very distinguished record." He nodded vigorously. "Wounded at Sebastopol, I think he said, then invalided out. Walked with a limp, poor devil. Not that it was disfiguring. Very good-looking fellow, great charm, very well liked, you know."
"A wealthy family?"
"Shelburne?" Scarsdale was faintly amused by Monk's ignorance and his confidence was beginning to return. "Of course. But I suppose you know, or perhaps you don't." He looked Monk up and down disparagingly. "But naturally all the money went to the eldest son, the present Lord Shelburne. Always happens that way, everything to the eldest, along with the title. Keeps the estates whole, otherwise everything would be in bits and pieces, d'you understand? All the power of the land gone!"
Monk controlled his sense of being patronized; he was perfectly aware of the laws of primogeniture.
"Yes, thank you. Where did Joscelin Grey's money come from?"
Scarsdale waved his hands, which were small, with wide knuckles and very short nails. "Oh business interests, I presume. I don't believe he had a great deal, but he didn't appear in any want. Always dressed well. Tell a lot from a fellow's clothes, you know." Again he looked at Monk with a faint curl of his lip, then saw the quality of Monk's jacket and the portion of his shirt that was visible, and changed his mind, his eyes registering confusion.
"And as far as you know he was neither married nor betrothed?'' Monk kept a stiff face and hid at least most of his satisfaction.
Scarsdale was surprised at his inefficiency.
"Surely you know that?"
"Yes, we know there was no official arrangement," Monk said, hastening to cover his mistake. "But you are in a position to know if there was any other relationship, anyone in whom he-had an interest?"
Scarsdale's rather full mouth turned down at the corners.
"If you mean an arrangement of convenience, not that I am aware of. But then a man of breeding does not inquire into the personal tastes-or accommodations-of another gentleman."
"No, I didn't mean a financial matter," Monk answered with the shadow of a sneer. "I meant some lady he might have-admired-or even been courting."
Scarsdale colored angrily. "Not as far as I know."
"Was he a gambler?"
"I have no idea. I don't gamble myself, except with friends, of course, and Grey was not among them. I haven't heard anything, if that's what you mean."
Monk realized he would get no more this evening, and he was tired. His own mystery was heavy at the back of his mind. Odd, how emptiness could be so intrusive. He rose to his feet.
"Thank you, Mr. Scarsdale. If you should hear anything to throw light on Major Grey's last few days, or who might have wished him harm, I am sure you will let us know. The sooner we apprehend this man, the safer it will be for everyone."
Scarsdale rose also, his face tightening at the subtle and unpleasant reminder that it had happened just across the hall from his own flat, threatening his security even as he stood there.
"Yes, naturally," he said a little sharply. "Now if you will be good enough to permit me to change-I have a dinner engagement, you know."
Monk arrived at the police station to find Evan waiting for him. He was surprised at the sharpness of his pleasure at seeing him. Had he always been a lonely person, or was this just the isolation from memory, from all that might have been love or warmth in himself? Surely there was a friend somewhere-someone with whom he had shared pleasure and pain, at least common experience? Had there been no woman-in the past, if not now-some stored-up memory of tenderness, of laughter or tears? If not he must have been a cold fish. Was there perhaps some tragedy? Or some wrong?
The nothingness was crowding in on him, threatening to engulf the precarious present. He had not even the comfort of habit.
Evan's acute face, all eyes and nose, was infinitely welcome.
"Find out anything, sir?" He stood up from the wooden chair in which he had been sitting.
"Not a lot," Monk answered with a voice that was suddenly louder, firmer than the words warranted. "I don't see much chance of anyone having got in unseen, except the man who visited Yeats at about quarter to ten. Grim-wade says he was a biggish man, muffled up, which is reasonable on a night like that. He says he saw him leave at roughly half past ten. Took him upstairs, but didn't see him closely, and wouldn't recognize him again."
Evan's face was a mixture of excitement and frustration.
"Damn!" he exploded. "Could be almost anyone then!" He looked at Monk quickly. "But at least we have a fair idea how he got in. That's a great step forward; congratulations, sir!"
Monk felt a quick renewal of his spirits. He knew it was not justified; the step was actually very small. He sat down in the chair behind the desk.
"About six feet," he reiterated. "Dark and probably clean-shaven. I suppose that does narrow it a little."
"Oh it narrows it quite a lot, sir," Evan said eagerly, resuming his own seat. "At least we know that it wasn't a chance thief. If he called on Yeats, or said he did, he had planned it, and taken the trouble to scout the building. He knew who else lived there. And of course there's Yeats himself. Did you see him?"
"No, he wasn't in, and anyway I'd rather find out a little about him before I face him with it."
"Yes, yes of course. If he knew anything, he's bound to deny it, I suppose." But the anticipation was building in Evan's face, his voice; even his body was tightening under the elegant coat as if he expected some sudden action here in the police station. "The cabby was no good, by the way. Perfectly respectable fellow, worked this area for twenty years, got a wife and seven or eight children. Never been any complaints against him."
"Yes," Monk agreed. "Grimwade said he hadn't gone into the building, in fact doesn't think he even got off the box."