‘Well, Inspector, here I am! And what do you want with me? Newbury asked me all the questions in the world yesterday morning. You asked them all over again in the evening, and here we are again. I suppose you sit up all night thinking up new ones. It beats me how you do it.’
As soon as he drew breath he was introduced to Miss Silver.
‘Friend of Lady Dryden’s? Much upset, I suppose. Can’t imagine her upset, but suppose she is. I said so to Mrs. Considine-met her on my way here. And do you know what she said? She was at school with Lady Dryden, you know. Said she’d never seen her upset in her life. Didn’t allow things to upset her-that’s the way she put it. Said if there was a row or anything, Sybil always came out of it with everything going her way. I’ve known people like that myself. It’s quite a gift. But they’re not much liked-I’ve noticed that.’
He had come up to the fire, and stood there, leaning over it and rubbing his hands. He turned about now and addressed himself to Miss Silver.
‘The fact is, people who don’t have any misfortunes are very irritating to their neighbours. No opportunities for popping in with condolences and new-laid eggs. No visits to the afflicted. No opportunities for the milk of human kindness to flow. Naturally it doesn’t.’
He was so ruddy, so glowing, so pleased with himself, that it became every moment more difficult to picture him in the rôle of first murderer. And the motive-a dispute over the authenticity of an antique dagger? Memory stirred and provided Frank Abbott with a vista of belligerent letters to The Times-about this, about that, about anything. Disputes-the man’s past has been fairly littered with them. But no corpses. Then why now? The whole thing appeared in a ridiculous light. Yet the fact remained that the Professor had certainly been in this room on the night of the murder, and that fact he would have to explain.
As the booming voice stopped, Frank said in his quiet drawl,
‘Do you mind telling me which way you came in the other night?’
The Professor turned a pair of gleaming spectacles upon him.
‘What do you mean, the other night?’
‘The night Sir Herbert was murdered.’
‘Then how do you mean, which way did I come in? Which way does one usually come in? I came here to dine. I rang the bell, and I was let in by that six and a half foot of tallow candle, young Frederick What’s-his-name. He’ll tell you so if you ask him.’
Frank Abbott nodded.
‘Naturally. But that wasn’t the time I was talking about. You dined here, and you went away at half past ten, just after Mr. and Mrs. Considine. What I want to know is, when did you come back, and why?’
‘When did I come back? What do you mean, sir?’
‘Just what I say. You came back-probably to this door on to the terrace. You attracted Sir Herbert’s attention, and he let you in.’
The Professor blew out his cheeks, and said, ‘Pah!’
Frank, listening to the sound, reflected that it really was more like ‘Pah!’ than ‘Pooh!’ It was followed immediately by the word ‘Nonsense!’ delivered upon a growling note.
He continued equably.
‘I don’t think so. I think you did come to that door.’
Professor Richardson glared.
‘What you think isn’t evidence, young man. What my housekeeper can swear to is. She will tell you I was in by a quarter to eleven, and that is that!’
‘You were riding an autocycle?’
‘I always do. It is not a criminal offence, I believe.’
‘It might be a convenient accessory. If you were back in your house in the village in a little over ten minutes you could have made the return journey in the same time. You had had some dispute with Sir Herbert earlier in the evening. He put forward a story which connected this ivory dagger with Marco Polo.’
‘Fantastic? Completely and ridiculously fantastic! And so I told him! The earliest authentic record goes back no farther than the eighteenth century!’
‘At which point Mrs. Considine intervened and asked to hear some of her favourite records. Well, you wanted to have the thing out. You went home, stewed over it a bit, thought of a lot more things to say, put your magnifying-glass in your pocket and came along back. You knew Sir Herbert was given to sitting up late-you knew that he would be in this room. You came round on to the terrace, he let you in, went and fetched the dagger, and you took up the argument where Mrs. Considine had interrupted it. By the way, here is your magnifying-glass.’ His hand went into a pocket and came out again. He held it out with the glass upon its palm.
The Professor had a rash of blood to the head, to the face- one would almost have said to the hair. Sweat broke out upon him. He might have just emerged from a cauldron of boiling water. He said with a growl in his throat,
‘What’s that?’
Your magnifying-glass.’
‘Who says it’s mine?’
‘It has your initials on it.’
The red heat the man was in, his glaring eyes, the ferocity of the growling voice, threw back to the savage and the animal.
Miss Silver, continuing to occupy herself with little Josephine’ vest, regarded the scene with intelligent interest. Anger was both a disfiguring and revealing passion. The old proverb ran, In vino veritas, but it was not the drunken man alone who spoke the truth. Anger could be as sovereign to loosen the tongue as wine. The Professor’s tongue was loosened. He blew out his cheeks to their fullest extent. He made strange guttural noises. A cataract of words emerged.
‘My initials are on a magnifying-glass-and the magnifying-glass turns up in this room! So very convenient! How do these things happen? Perhaps the experts from Scotland Yard can inform us! And because my magnifying-glass is here I have murdered Herbert Whitall! That is the next thing you will say, I suppose! Continue! Say it!’
Frank’s manner became even cooler.
‘Before either of us say anything more I had better caution you that anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence.’
The Professor broke into what was certainly laughter, though it had a very belligerent sound.
‘All right-you have cautioned me. I needn’t make a statement at all. I can consult my solicitor and all the rest of it. Bosh! I shall make any statement I like, and I don’t require a solicitor to instruct me how to tell the truth! So I killed Herbert Whitall, did I? Perhaps you’ll tell me why! Anyone except a homicidal maniac has got to have a motive. Where’s mine? Tell me that, Mr. Clever from Scotland Yard!’
Frank went over to the writing-table and sat down at it. Drawing a writing-pad towards him and picking up one of Sir Herbert’s beautifully sharpened pencils, he observed,
‘Well, you did have quite a heated dispute with him.’
The Professor ran his hands through his frill of red hair and hooted.
‘Dispute! You call that a dispute! My good young man, my career has been punctuated with disputes! I didn’t like Herbert Whitall-never met anyone who did. Entirely without veracity, human feeling, or scientific integrity-pah! But I never got as far as wanting to kill him. Why should I? If I didn’t kill Tortinelli when he called me a liar on a public platform-if I didn’t murder Mrs. Hodgkins-Blenkinsop when I had to listen to her talking pestiferous twaddle for two hours at a conversazione- why should I assassinate Herbert Whitall? I tell you anyone who could endure that woman for two hours is a master of self-control! I tell you I wasn’t even rude to her. My hostess implored me, and I restrained the impulse. I merely approached her and said, “Madam, the statements which you have put forward as fact are inaccurate, your method in presenting them is dishonest, and I would recommend you to leave history alone and turn your attention to fiction. Good evening!” ’ He broke into ordinary human laughter. ‘You should have seen her face! She weighs fifteen stone, and she gaped like a fish. For the first time in her life she couldn’t think of anything to say. I left before she came round. Well now, you see I am a person of restraint and self-control. I preserve the scientific outlook-I am calm, I am detached. Why should I murder Herbert Whitall?’