"Baxter had been one of my best friends for years. And why was he killed? How do I know the killer hasn't another victim lined up? And I know what this Satan Bug can do. Good God, man, I'd reason to be worried. Worried stiff."
"So you had," I agreed. "So you still have — even although I am getting pretty close to him. The killer I mean. And maybe he is after you next — it's a thought to bear in mind."
"You cold-hearted callous devil," he ground out. "In God's name get out and leave me alone."
"I'm just going. Keep your doors locked, Doctor."
"You're going to hear more of this, Cavell." Now that I'd announced my intention of leaving and had stuck the Hanyatti out of sight, he was recovering courage. "We'll see if you're so damned tough when you're up in court on an assault charge."
"Don't talk rubbish," I said shortly. "I never laid a finger on you. There's no mark on you. It's only your word against mine. Me, I'd take mine first any time."
I left the house. I saw the dark bulk of the garage where the Bentley was presumably housed, but I didn't give it a second glance or thought. When people want a nice, inconspicuous, unobstructive car for a stealthy and unobstructive mission, they don't go around borrowing Bentley Continentals.
I stopped at a phone box and, on the pretext of wanting Gregori's address made two unnecessary calls, to Weybridge first who couldn't, as I knew he couldn't, help me and to Cliveden who could and did. They were both pretty shirty about being disturbed at the crack of dawn, but they quietened down when I told them that I'd had to have the information immediately because my investigations had now reached such a critical stage that I might have the case tied up before the day was out. Both of them tried to question me on the progress I was making but I gave nothing away. That didn't take much finesse, for I'd nothing to give away in any event.
At 7.15 a.m. I was leaning on the doorbell of Dr. Gregori's house: more precisely the house in which he lived, a good-class boarding house run by a widow and her two daughters. Parked outside the front was a navy blue Fiat 2100. Gregori's car. It was still pitch dark, still cold and wet. I felt very tired and my leg ached badly so that I had difficulty in concentrating on what had to be done.
The door opened and a plump woman, grey-haired and fiftyish, peered out into the darkness. This would be the landlady herself, Mrs. Whithorn, reputedly a cheerful and happy-go-lucky soul of devastating untidiness and unpunctuality, whose boarding-house was the most sought-after in the area: her reputation as a cook was enviable.
"Who on earth is it at this time of morning?" Her voice held a good-natured exasperation. "Not the police again, I hope?"
"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Whithorn. Cavell is my name. I'd like to see Dr. Gregori, please."
"Poor Dr. Gregori. He's already put up with enough from you people. But I suppose you'd better come in. I'll go and see if he's up yet."
"Just tell me where his room is and I'll find out for myself. If you please, Mrs. Whithorn."
She demurred a bit, then reluctantly told me where to find him. Five yards along the big hall, down a side passage and I was outside his door — his name was on it. I knocked and waited.
I didn't have to wait long. Gregori must have been up, but only just. He wore a faded russet dressing-gown over his pyjamas and his swarthy face was swarthier than ever — he evidently hadn't yet got round to shaving.
"Cavell," he said. There was no particular warmth of welcome in his voice — people greeting the law at dawn are seldom in the most amiable frame of mind — but at least, unlike MacDonald, he was civil. "You'd better come in. And have a seat. You look worn out."
I felt worn out. I eased myself into the offered chair and looked around. Gregori didn't do himself as well as MacDonald in the way of furniture, but then it probably wasn't his furniture in the first place. The room I was in was furnished as a small study — his bedroom would be through the communication door in the far wall. A worn but still serviceable carpet, a couple of armchairs in the same category, one wall completely lined with bookcases, a heavy oak table with swivel chair, typewriter and piled-up papers and that was about it. In the stone hearth was the remains of last night's fire, smooth white ash such as you get from burning beech. The room, though cold, was rather stuffy— Gregori had obviously not as yet succumbed to the English madness of flinging open windows under any and all conditions — and I seemed to smell some peculiar odour in the air, so faint as to be unidentifiable.
"If I can be of any help to you, Mr. Cavell?" Gregori prompted.
"Just routine inquiries, Dr. Gregori," I said easily. "Most uncivilised hour, I know, but we feel that time is not on our side."
"You have not been to bed?" he said shrewdly.
"Not yet. I've been busy — visiting. I'm afraid my choice of visiting hours doesn't make me very popular. I've just come from Dr. MacDonald and I'm afraid he wasn't at all pleased to be dragged out of his bed."
"No? Dr. MacDonald," Gregori said delicately, "is a somewhat impatient man."
"You get on well with him? On friendly terms?"
"A colleague shall we say? I respect his work. Why, Mr. Cavell?"
"Incurable nosiness. Tell me, Doctor, have you any alibi for last night."
"Of course." He looked puzzled. "I told it to Mr. Hardanger in person. From eight until almost midnight I was at the birthday party for Mrs. Whithorn's daughter——"
"Sorry," I interupted. "Last night — not the night before."
"Aha." He looked at me anxiously. "There have been— there have been no more killings?"
"No more," I reassured him. "Well, Doctor?"
"Last night?" He half-smiled and shrugged. "An alibi? Had I known that an alibi would have been required of me I would not have failed to provide one. At what time, exactly, Mr. Cavell?"
"Let us say between 9.30 and 10.30 p.m."
"Alas, no. No alibi, I fear. I was in my room here, working all night on my book. Work therapy, you might call it, Mr. Cavell, after the dreadful experience of yesterday." He paused, then went on apologetically. "Well, not all night. From after dinner — about eight — till eleven. It was a good night for me in the circumstances — three whole pages." He smiled again, differently. "For the type of book I'm writing, Mr. Cavell, a page an hour represents excellent progress."
"And what type of book is that?"
"On inorganic chemistry." He shook his head and added wistfully: "it is unlikely that the citizens will be besieging the bookshops in order to buy it The reading public for my speciality is limited indeed."
"That the book?" I nodded at the pile of papers on the desk.
"It is. One I began in Turin, more years ago than I care to remember. Examine it if you wish, Mr. Cavell. Not, I fear, that it would convey much to you. Apart from the rather abstruse nature of the subject-matter, it is in Italian — the language I prefer for writing."
I didn't tell him that I could read Italian almost as well as he spoke English. Instead I said, "You type directly on to paper?"
"But of course. My handwriting is that of the true scientist — almost completely indecipherable. But a moment!" He rubbed a thoughtful palm across a blue and bristly chin. "The typewriter. It may have been heard."
"That's why I asked. You think it likely?"
"I don't know. My rooms were specially chosen because of my typing — must not disturb the other guests, you understand. There are no bedrooms either above or on either side of me. Wait now, yes, yes, I'm almost certain I heard a television programme next door. At least," more doubtfully. "I think I did. Next door is what Mrs. Whithorn rather grandly calls her television lounge, but it is very poorly patronised, I fear, chiefly by Mrs. Whithom herself and her daughters, and that not frequently. But I'm sure I heard something. Well, almost sure. Shall we ask?"