The door closed upon Marsham. Frank Abbott let a full minute go by. Then rising from his chair, he strolled across and opened it again. The long passage was empty. He returned to the fire, noted that it required attention, and made an expert disposition of two small logs and a large one. When he had finished and was dusting his hands with a beautiful handkerchief in harmony with his tie and socks, he observed in a casual tone,
‘Just as well to be sure that he doesn’t make a habit of leaning against doors.’
Miss Silver looked at him across her pink knitting.
‘You think he heard more than he is willing to admit?’
‘Could be. No one ever tells everything they know-not in a murder case. I learnt that from you when I was in rompers. I thought he was holding something back. Didn’t you?’
‘I do not know. I think he recognized Professor Richardson’s voice a good deal more definitely than he admits.’
‘Oh, yes-quite definitely. Likes the old boy, I wouldn’t wonder. Was not, shall we say, extravagantly attached to the late Whitall. None of the old retainer touch about our Marsham.’
Miss Silver coughed.
‘I have yet to encounter a single person who can be said to have entertained the slightest affection for Sir Herbert Whitall.’
Frank’s fair eyebrows rose.
‘What an epitaph! “Here lies the man whom no one liked.” What would you think about adding, “and a good many people hated?” ’
‘I think it may prove to be in accordance with the facts.’
‘Nobody liked him-a good few hated him. That’s the verdict, is it? Into which of those two classes would you put Miss Whitaker?’
‘I would not care to say. There has been some strong feeling. She is undoubtedly suffering severely from shock.’
‘Well, she has been with him ten years. She may have been his mistress. I don’t suppose she murdered him. Newbury looked into her alibi, and it seems all right. She left at half past ten with the Considines, caught the Emsworth bus, and got off at the station at eleven o’clock. The sister is a Mrs. West living at 32 Station Road. She says Miss Whitaker got there just after eleven and went straight to bed-they both did. She said she had had a bad turn, and her little boy hadn’t been well. She rang her sister up because she was going to be alone in the house with him, and she wasn’t any too sure of herself.’
‘She is on the telephone?’
‘Yes, I asked about that. She has a masseuse boarding with her. She has the telephone, and allows Mrs. West to use it.’
‘And where was this masseuse?’
‘Away for the week-end. The story hangs together all right. Miss Whitaker took the ten o’clock bus back in the morning.’
Miss Silver went on knitting. From her expression Frank deduced that she still had something to say. He waited for it, leaning against the mantelshelf, the picture of an idle, elegant young man, fair hair mirror-smooth, beautifully cut dark suit. It was not very long before she coughed and said in a tentative manner,
‘For how long has Mrs. West resided in Emsworth?’
He looked a little surprised. Whatever he was expecting, it was not this.
‘Mrs. West? I don’t know. Wait a bit, I believe Newbury did mention it. There was something about her being new to the place. It came up in connection with her being alone in the house with the child. He said she probably wouldn’t know anyone she could ask to come in.’
Miss Silver pulled on a pale pink ball.
‘That is what I imagined. I think it probable that Mrs. West’s move to Emsworth followed upon Sir Herbert’s purchase of Vineyards.’
‘And the meaning of that is?’
‘I am wondering whether Miss Whitaker’s concern was so much for her sister as for a child who might have suffered if deprived of proper attention. May I ask whether Inspector Newbury mentioned the child’s age?’
‘Yes, I think he did-a little boy of eight. You mean?’
Her needles clicked. She said,
‘It is possible. It would, I think, explain some things, and suggest some others.’
As she spoke the last word, the door was opened. Frederick appeared, towering over the Professor. His ‘Professor Richardson-’ was a superfluity, since that gentleman immediately bounded into the room, his bald crown gleaming, the ruff of red hair standing up about it like a hedge. His deep voice boomed.
‘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?’
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!’