The inspector was breathing heavily through his nostrils. But so was Masters, who had been trying in vain to stop a conversational steam-roller. Masters did more than merely glare. His attitude towards Inspector Potter as his family relation made him deplorably forgetful of his dignity.
"Now, then]" he declared. "Now, then, I'll tell you what it is, Charley Potter. You keep your ruddy head shut when you're told, or I'll report to the Chief Constable of this county your means of carrying on a case. Tell a witness what to say; eh? Makes no difference if we know it's truth. Eh? Oh, Lord! You in the CID., my lad? I don't think."
Inspector Potter closed one eye in a highly sinister fashion.
"Urr?" he inquired with dignity. "And 'oo may be in charge of this case, I should like to know? — You that was going to play Santy Claus! Urr! All right. Play Santy Claus. Here. Now. I was stating well-known facts. And I'll tell you more. We've got, a witness, Bill Locker that I've known all my life and is honest and trustworthy and 'as spotted the Derby winner for the last three years which is more than you can do: Bill Locker saw Mr. Bohun go in. Eh? And there was nobody in there hidden, which we proved. Now then!" He flung down his pencil on the table like a gauntlet. "Until you can play Santy Claus and explain all that, sir, I'll ask you respectfully-.'
"Sic 'em, my lads," said the little doctor, with an air of refreshed interest. "I think I'll stop on a bit. Yes. Nothing adds zest to a criminal case like a free-for-all fight among the police at the outset. But is there anything else you want to know from me?"
With an effort Masters regained his imperturbability.
"Ah, ah," he said. "Forgot myself, inspector. Just so. You're in charge, for the moment, and you're quite right and within your duties." He folded his arms. "I should suggest, however, that before the doctor goes you make some inquiry about the weapon."
Dr. Wynne scowled. "Weapon? Hum. Dunno. That's your business. All I can give you is the customary Blunt Instrument. They were hard smashes. From the position of the wounds, looks as though she'd been struck down from the front, and then smashed five or six times as she lay on her side or face. Hard blows. Yes. Your police surgeon will tell you definitely at the pm"
"I don't suppose, sir," observed Potter, as a startling thought seemed to occur to him for the first time, "I don't suppose it could have been done by a woman, could it?"
" Might have been. Why not? Given a fairly heavy weapon; why not?"
"That poker with its end in the ashes?"
"I should have said something rather thicker, with an angle or two to it. But again that's your business."
During these questions, Bennett noticed, Masters' face had assumed a blank and tolerant sadness as of a teacher in an idiot-school, touched now by a satiric grimness. He breathed stertoriously through his nose as Inspector Potter asked:
"Ah! Might it 'a' been that decanter, now; the heavy one that was smashed?"
"Hang it, man, it could have been anything! Look round for your fingerprints or your bloodstains or whateveritis." Dr. Wynne set his hat on jauntily and picked up a black bag. He squinted at the inspector. "Humph. Shouldn't think it was the decanter; would you? Seems to me she'd have been soaked in port wine, and anyway the fragments of that bottle weren't near her body at all. Looks as though it only dropped off a table or something and got smashed… Lord knows, my boy, I'd like to give you a bit of help if I could. Strikes me that with a straight-out, frank, rounded impossible situation slap in front of you, you need it."
"Exactly," said a new voice from the shadows at the other side of the room, with such suddenness that they all jumped. "But would you like me to explain how the murder was committed?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Design for Hanging
Inspector Potter called violently on omnipotence, and almost upset a very heavy table as he surged to his feet. Even Masters was startled. They were all standing in the little circle of light thrown by the fire and the two yellow-shaded lamps. Electric bulbs burned in a sort of crown high up against the groined roof; but the big library was still dusky, almost as though the books themselves threw shadows.
Bennett looked towards the line of diamond-paned windows in the embrasure at one end, a wall of glass against which stood a single tall tapestry-armchair with its back to the room. A head rose over the chair, and a figure leisurely detached itself. It stood squat and black against windows and gray sky; they heard glass clink and smelt the smoke of a cigar. Footsteps, not quite steady ones, rasped along the stone floor. There was something leering, something goblin-like in that round little shape, ducking and mowing with the cigar; even more so when it grew close enough for them to see the short wiry black hair, the stiff smile on a stiff face, and the staring little bloodshot eyes.
Bennett realized not only that it was Carl Rainger, swathed in a flowered silk dressing-gown much too big for him; but that Carl Rainger was very drunk.
Rainger said, in a steady voice which seemed to come from deep down in his throat: "I must ask you to excuse me. In fact, I must tell you to excuse me, in view of the help I am prepared to give. I was listening, gentlemen. I was frankly listening. When you came in, you surprised me there in the chair with Betsy," he patted the neck of a bottle protruding from the pocket of the dressing-gown, "Betsy the second, while I communed with nature. `Straight mine eye had caught new pleasures, While the landscape round it measures.' Beautiful country. Ha ha ha."
His tubby figure stumped into the circle of light. There was a rather inhuman quality about the stiff masklike smile and the mirth that came from behind shut teeth. He nodded and winked both eyes and made a gesture of theatrical politeness with the cigar. But the reddish little eyes, despite their staring fixedness, were very sharp.
"My name is Rainger; I think it is fairly well known. Give me that chair, Mr. Masters. The one you're standing in front of, if you don't mind. Thank you. Ah! Now! Good morning, gentlemen."
"Good morning, sir," Masters answered imperturbably, after a pause. Behind his back he jerked his arm sharply at the staring Potter. "You wish to make a statement? Eh?"
Rainger considered. He was wriggling his bristly scalp backwards and forwards, as children do, while he stared at the fire.
"Yes, I suppose I do. Yes, in a way. I can explain this impossible situation that's been bothering you. Ho ho ho."
Masters studied. him. "Naturally, sir, we're always glad to listen to suggestions. Quite. But one thing I'll suggest, if you don't mind. You're certain you're in a condition to suggest anything important?"
"Condition?"
"Well, not taken a drop over the line, as I might say? Eh?"
Rainger turned round slowly, pulling the gaudy dressing-gown about him. His face assumed an expression as though he were slyly peering round the corner of a wall; then it lit up with an almost terrifying smile.
"God love your innocence, inspector," he said, rather tenderly. "Taken a drop over the line?"' He burst into choking laughter until his eyes were blurred. "Well, well, let's compose ourselves. Of course I've taken a drop over the line. Very neatly put. As a matter of fact, I'm drunker than hell, inspector, and we both know it. What of it? In better days, before I was persuaded to become respectable and give it up, you would never have found me in any other condition. But I lived and moved and had my being, and my brain — this," he knocked his knuckles against it, "was much the better for it. I only gave it up because I was even too clear-seeing, and they called it morbid. Hoho!
"Shall I prove it, inspector?" he demanded, pointing the cigar suddenly. "Shall I tell you what you're thinking? You're thinking, `Maybe this is a confession. Maybe I'd better jolly this repulsive little baboon along and get him to admit something he oughtn't' Uh? That's your innocence again. I am much more talkative than usual, yes. But I didn't kill her. Queerly enough, I have an alibi "