'A photograph? Grant said, startled and pleased.
'In one of those film magazines. I haven't seen it myself. She talked about it one night when she came to dinner.
'And she met Searle when she came to dinner? And identified him?
'She did. They had a wonderful get-together. Searle had photographed some of her pet actors, and she had reproductions of them too.
'So there is no doubt in your mind that Searle is what he says he is.
'I notice you use the present tense, Inspector. That cheers me. But he sounded more ironic than cheered.
'Have you yourself any theory as to what could have happened, Mr Whitmore?
'Short of fiery chariots or witches' broomsticks, no. It is the most baffling thing.
Grant caught himself thinking that Walter Whitmore, too, was moved to think of sleight-of-hand.
'The most reasonable explanation, I suppose, Walter went on, 'is that he lost his way in the dark and fell into the river at some other spot, where no one would hear him.
'And why don't you approve of that theory? Grant asked, answering the tone that Whitmore used.
'Well, for one thing, Searle had eyes like a cat. I had slept out with him for four nights, and I know. He was wonderful in the dark. Secondly he had an extra-good bump of locality. Thirdly he was by all accounts cold sober when he left the Swan. Fourthly it is a bee-line from Salcott to the river-bank where we were camped, by the hedges all the way. You can't stray, because if you walk away from the hedge you walk into plough or crop of some kind. And lastly, though this is hearsay evidence, Searle could swim very well indeed.
'There is a suggestion, Mr Whitmore, that you and Searle were on bad terms on Wednesday evening. Is there any truth in that?
'I thought we should get to that sooner or later, Walter said. He pressed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray until it was a misshapen wreck.
'Well? Grant prompted, as he seemed to have nothing more to say.
'We had what might be called a-a «spat», I suppose. I was-annoyed. Nothing more than that.
'He annoyed you so much that you left him at the pub and walked back by yourself.
'I like being by myself.
'And you went to sleep without waiting for his return.
'Yes. I didn't want to talk to him any more that night. He annoyed me, I tell you. I thought that I might be in a better humour and he in a less provocative mood in the morning.
'He was provocative?
'I think that is the word.
'About what?
'I don't have to tell you that.
'You don't have to tell me anything, Mr Whitmore.
'No, I know I don't. But I want to be as helpful as I can. God knows I want this thing cleared up as soon as possible. It is just that what we-disagreed about is something personal and irrelevant. It has no bearing whatever on anything that happened to Searle on Wednesday night. I certainly didn't lie in wait for him on the way home, or push him into the river, or subject him to violence.
'Do you know of anyone who would be likely to want to?
Whitmore hesitated; presumably with Serge Ratoff in his mind.
'Not that kind of violence, he said at length.
'Not what kind?
'Not that waiting-in-the-dark kind.
'I see. Just the ordinary sock-in-the-jaw kind. There was a scene with Serge Ratoff, I understand.
'Anyone who gets through life in close proximity to Serge Ratoff and doesn't have a scene with him must be abnormal, Walter said.
'You don't know of anyone who might have a grudge against Searle?
'No one in Salcott. I don't know anything of his friends or enemies elsewhere.
'Have you any objection to my looking through Searle's belongings?
'I haven't, but Searle might. What do you expect to find, Inspector?
'Nothing specific. A man's belongings are very revealing, I find. I am merely looking for suggestion of some sort; help of any kind in a very puzzling situation.
'I'll take you up now, then-unless there is anything else you want to ask me.
'No, thank you. You have been very helpful. I wish you could have trusted me far enough to tell me what the quarrel was about —
'There was no quarrel! Whitmore said sharply.
'I beg your pardon. I mean, in what way Searle riled you. It would tell me even more about Searle than it would about you; but perhaps it is too much to expect you to see that.
Whitmore stood by the door, considering this. 'No, he said slowly. 'No, I do see what you mean. But to tell you involves — No, I don't think I can tell you.
'I see you can't. Let us go up.
As they emerged into the baronial hall from the library where the interview had taken place, Liz had just come out of the drawing-room and was crossing to the stairs. When she saw Grant she paused and her face lighted with joy.
'Oh! she said, 'you've come with news of him!
When Grant said no, that he had no news, she looked puzzled.
'But it was you who introduced him, she insisted. 'At that party.
This was news to Walter and Grant could feel his surprise. He could also feel his resentment at that flash of overwhelming joy on Liz's face.
'This, Liz dear, he said in a cool, faintly malicious tone, 'is Detective Inspector Grant from Scotland Yard.
'From the Yard! But-you were at that party!
'It is not unheard of for policemen to be interested in the arts, Grant said, amused. 'But —
'Oh, please! I didn't mean it that way.
'I had only looked in at the party to pick up a friend. Searle was standing by the door looking lost because he didn't know Miss Fitch by sight. So I took him over and introduced them. That is all.
'And now you've come down here to-to investigate-
'To investigate his disappearance. Have you any theories, Miss Garrowby?
'I? No. Not even a rudimentary one. It just doesn't make sense. It's fantastically senseless.
'If it isn't too late may I talk to you for a little when I have been through Searle's belongings?
'No, of course it isn't too late. It isn't ten o'clock yet. She sounded weary. 'Since this happened time stretches out and out. It's like having-hashish, is it? Are you looking for anything in particular, Inspector?
'Yes, Grant said. 'Inspiration. But I doubt if I shall find it.
'I shall be in the library when you come down. I hope you will find something that will help. It is very dreadful being suspended from a spider's thread this way.
As he went through Searle's belongings Grant thought about Liz Garrowby-Marta's 'dear nice Liz'-and her relations with William's 'push-ee'. There was never any saying what a woman saw in any man, and Whitmore was of course a celebrity as well as a potentially good husband. He had said as much to Marta, coming away from the party that day. But how right had Marta been about Searle's power to upset? How much had Liz Garrowby felt Searle's charm? How much of that eager welcome of hers in the hall had been joy at Searle's imagined safety and how much mere relief from the burden of suspicion and gloom?
His hands turned over Searle's things with automatic efficiency, but his mind was busy deciding how much or how little to ask Liz Garrowby when he went downstairs again.
Searle had occupied a first-floor room in the battlemented tower that stuck out to the left of the Tudor front door, so that it had windows on three sides of it. It was large and high, and was furnished in very superior Tottenham Court Road, a little too gay and coy for its Victorian amplitude. It was an impersonal room and Searle had evidently done nothing to stamp it with his personality. This struck Grant as odd. He had rarely seen a room, occupied for so long, so devoid of atmosphere. There were brushes on the table, and books by the bedside, but of their owner there was no trace. It might have been a room in a shop window.