The paper in front of Inspector Abbott remained blank. He said negligently,
‘I didn’t ask you whether you killed Whitall. I asked you whether you came back here on the night that somebody did kill him.’
The Professor had approached the table. He now threw himself into a convenient chair, thumped the stuffed arm, and said,
‘Oh, no, you didn’t, young man-you didn’t ask me anything at all. You told me I came back, which is a very different matter.’
‘Well, you did come back-didn’t you?’
The Professor thumped again.
‘Of course I came back! Why shouldn’t I! Is there any law against it?’
‘Would you care to tell me what happened?’
The Professor caught up the last word and hurled it back.
‘Happened? Nothing happened! Except that I was able to give him a good setting-down about his ridiculous ivory dagger. Marco Polo indeed! Late seventeenth or early eighteenth century work, so I told him!’
‘But I believe you bid for it.’
The Professor waved that away.
‘Not for myself. Can’t afford expensive fakes. A friend of mine, Rufus T. Ellinger, the beef king, cabled me to get someone to bid for it. Didn’t go myself-didn’t want to be associated with the thing. Ellinger had heard fancy accounts. He’s a good judge of beef but not of ivories. I told him it was pretty work but the story was all moonshine. I told him the sum he could go to. Whitall outbid him, and that was that. Paid a pretty penny for it-much more than it was worth. Naturally, he didn’t like it when I told him he’d been had for a mug. Wouldn’t admit it. Pah!’
‘And you came back to have it out. Why did you go home? Why not just stay on after the Considines had left?’
The Professor now appeared to be perfectly amiable. His colour had relapsed into its normal redness. The crown of his head was no longer suffused. His voice had ceased to boom. He said,
‘Ah! You think you’ve got me there, but you haven’t. I went home for my magnifying-glass, and for a letter. Meant to bring them with me, but found I hadn’t got them. That’s my housekeeper-she’s always taking things out of my pockets. She says they’d burst if she didn’t. The letter was from Robinet. He’s the greatest living expert on ivories, and he knew all about this precious ivory dagger. Between us I thought we could bring Whitall down a peg or two, and so we did. I knew he sat up late, so I came round to this door.’
Frank balanced the pencil in his hand.
‘And he let you in?’
The Professor thumped the arm of his chair.
‘No. The door was unlocked.’
‘What!’
Professor Richardson nodded.
‘I just tried the handle-I was going to rattle it to attract his attention, you know-but it was open, so I walked in. Gave him a bit of a start.’ He grinned like a schoolboy.
Frank Abbott’s eyes had become intent.
‘Well, you came in. Was he surprised to see you?’
‘I don’t know whether he was or not. I said, “Look here, Whitall, if that ivory daggers of yours is a day older than late seventeenth century, I’ll eat it. Fetch it along, and I’ll prove what I say, or Robinet shall prove it for you.” So he fetched it along, and I did prove it, though he was much too self-opinionated an ass to admit it in so many words.’
‘And then?’
The Professor stared.
‘I went along home.’
‘Which way did you go out?’
‘The same way I came in.’
‘Why?’
‘Pah! Why does one do anything? It was the nearest way.’
‘It gave you a long dark walk round the house.’
‘And I have an excellent pocket torch. Look here, where is this getting us?’
Abbott said coolly,
‘I just wondered whether it was because you didn’t want to be seen. You wouldn’t, would you, if Whitall was dead when you left him?’
The Professor thumped with both hands.
‘Well then, he wasn’t, and that’s that! He was sitting where you are now with the dagger in front of him on the blotting-pad, looking about as sweet as verjuice. I went out, and before I got down the steps he was after me, locking the door in case I took it into my head to come back.’
‘He locked the door after you?’
The Professor gave one of his great roars of laughter.
‘Jammed down the bolt! Couldn’t do it fast enough! Afraid I’d come back and refute him some more!’
There was a pause. Then Abbott said,
‘Do you know that Waring found that door ajar at a little after twelve?’
The Professor stared.
‘Then someone must have opened it.’
‘Or left it open. If Herbert Whitall was dead when you left him, there would be no one to fasten the door after you-would there?’
The Professor grinned.
‘Very subtle, young man. What do you expect me to say? He was alive when I left him, and he locked the door behind me. So you can put that in your statement, and I’ll sign it!’
CHAPTER XXIX
When the Professor had made his statement and signed it, which he did with a fine zigzag of a Z and a ‘Richardson’ of which the capital letter was the only one which could be identified with any certainty, he threw down the pen and inquired whether the police were going to make fools of themselves by arresting him.
‘Don’t mind me, if you want to be a laughing-stock! Get on with it!’
‘And you will write to The Times about it? Well, I don’t think we’ll oblige you today, but you must understand that you will be called at the inquest, and that you should be available for further questioning.’
The Professor gave his booming laugh.
‘I shan’t do a bolt, if that’s what you mean!’
Miss Silver had been knitting thoughtfully. When Professor Richardson had banged the door behind him Frank Abbott strolled over to her and said,
‘Well?’
She coughed mildly.
‘An interesting character,’ she observed.
He sat down on the arm of the opposite chair.
‘Oh, quite.’
‘In some ways so extremely uncontrolled, and yet capable of meeting a really alarming situation with considerable coolness. His argument, produced on the spur of the moment and after a really remarkable exhibition of anger, was, under the mannerisms with which it was presented, both adroit and cool.’
Frank nodded.
‘He has got a brain all right.’
‘A very good one, I should say.’
He laughed.
‘But you haven’t really answered my question. What did you think of that cool, adroit argument of his? Did you find it convincing?’
‘I am inclined to be convinced by it.’
‘Would you like to give me your reasons?’
Her busy hands rested for a moment. She looked at him in a very earnest manner and said,
‘It is a question of motive. I cannot see why Professor Richardson should have desired Sir Herbert Whitall’s death. There may, of course, be things that we do not know, but on the face of it the Professor had every reason to be pleased with the result of the interview which had just taken place. You can, of course, confirm his account of it by asking to see the letter from M. Robinet which, he declares, enabled him to confute Sir Herbert. Having had the best of that argument, why should he proceed to violence? He would be much more likely to have arrived at a state of high good humour, no doubt very offensive to Sir Herbert Whitall but in no way calculated to produce a murderous impulse. There is also the fact that he apparently made no attempt to keep his voice down during the interview. The hour was not very late. It was only eleven o’clock. Anyone might have been passing along the passage. Marsham did in fact pass, and heard both his voice and Sir Herbert’s.’