“They are——?”
“Both had to do with Rattray and his wife; and both were slips. One she spotted and covered up, just in time: t’other she didn’t see at all. Didn’t you notice?”
“How can I tell, till I hear what they are?”
“D’you remember her saying that Rattray’s wife hangs on to him morning, noon, and night?”
“Yes.”
“Well—then she added ‘She can’t always, thank God.’ Why ‘thank God’? That slipped out; she never noticed it. What’s it mean?”
“I shouldn’t think it meant anything. As you say, it just slipped out. She probably meant ‘I’m glad to say she can’t always hang on to him.’ ”
Ellis shook his head.
“I believe that when things slip out it’s because there’s something real behind ’em. However, time’ll show.”
“What was the other thing? The one you say she covered up?”
“When she asked me what on earth connection there could be between old Matt’s death and what Joan felt towards Rattray’s wife. She said Ursula Rattray, but just before it I’ll swear she was going to say another name. Something beginning with T or D. ‘About T——’ or ‘About D——’ and then in a flash she switched it to Ursula.”
“I didn’t notice. But, even if she did, why need it mean anything? She just stumbled and mistook the name.”
“Not she. She was going to say someone else’s name.”
“Whose?”
“Oh, you ass! don’t you see? His name. The husband’s. Rattray’s.”
“Why shouldn’t she? I dare say she knows him quite well.”
“Exactly, exactly! why shouldn’t she! Therefore, why cover it up?”
Gilkison shook his head.
“This is all too subtle for me,” he complained. “I fancy you’re making mountains out of molehills.”
“I’m inclined, putting those two things together—— Hallo! here’s Bradstreet. Well, Inspector! How goes it?”
“All right, thank you. Good morning, Mr. Gilkison. A nice day.”
“Very seasonable.” Ellis dug him in the ribs. “Go on, you old devil. What have you got up your sleeve?”
Bradstreet grinned.
“Nothing, Mr. McKay. Nothing at all.”
“What are you doing here, then? Taking the air?”
“I thought, if it was convenient, you might like us to go along and see old Treweek.”
“Capital. Nothing I’d like better. Where does he live?”
“Down to the left here.”
He fell in beside them. The three gaits were so dissimilar that Gilkison gave up all attempt to keep in step.
“Any news?” Ellis asked.
“It’s all been set in motion. We should hear something by twelve o’clock. How did you get on?”
“A rather tempestuous young woman. One or two nasty spots in her mind. But I think she’ll play ball. By the way, I’ve done the dirty on you, rather.”
“How’s that, then?”
“D’you mind asking her what she was doing yesterday afternoon? I had rather a job to keep on confidential terms with her, and I didn’t want to spoil what little good impression I might have made.”
Bradstreet laughed.
“I’ll see to that all right. Did you get much from her?”
“A few small points. There’s more there than meets the eye, I fancy.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t reckon, though, she’s got aught to do with this business.”
“Not directly, perhaps. But—— Well. We’ll see.”
“Here’s Treweek’s place,” Bradstreet said.
Gilkison turned to Ellis.
“I’ll go back to the hotel,” he said. “I want to collect one or two things before I start on the books.”
“No, my lad. You stay here. I want you.”
“But——”
“Come along in, Mr. Gilkison.” Bradstreet beamed at him, and held open the little gate. “Very pleased to have you with us.”
Gilkison’s face folded up. It did this on so many occasions that Ellis could never be sure whether it meant he was pleased or the reverse. It pulled a shutter over all his feelings.
Mr. Treweek was not indoors. A scared-looking girl, whether niece, granddaughter, or some other kind of unwilling helper, whispered that he was out at the back.
“Well, fetch him in, my dear, will you? Tell him that Inspector Bradstreet would like a word with him.”
The girl departed silently, after a pale glance at each of them in turn. It was very stuffy in the small, crowded room. Bradstreet placidly opened the window—it took a bit of forcing: both latch and hinge were stiff and rusty—tipped a sleeping cat off one chair, removed an old coat from another, and insisted on Ellis and Gilkison seating themselves. He stood in front of the fireplace, thrusting out an enormous chest, rocking to and fro on his heels. He cocked an eye at the low smoky ceiling and whistled very softly through his teeth.
Ellis looked up at once.
“Maritana,” he said.
“Is it? I never remember names. I was in the café in to Exeter with Mrs. Bradstreet the other day, and they were playing a thing I know as well as I know my own name; but do you think I could remember what it was called? She couldn’t, either.”
Ellis suddenly raised a rich but rather throaty tenor.
“That’s it,” Bradstreet said. “Go on.”
Ellis sang on to the end of the stanza. Before he finished, the door opened slowly, and an old man stood in it, staring in sheer amazement. Seeing him, Ellis bowed and waved a hand, but did not stop.
“Then you’ll remember me,” he carolled. “Now you’ll remember, Inspector. You won’t ever forget the name of that again.”
“Maybe you’re right. Good morning, Treweek. Let me introduce these gentlemen. This is Detective Inspector McKay from Scotland Yard, who’s just been singing so nice. And this is Mr. Gilkison. We’ve come to ask you one or two questions about Matt Baildon.”
A look of cunning at once overspread the weazened, resentful features. The visitors observed that Mr. Treweek had only one eye.
“Ah,” he said. “You can’t put nothin’ on to me.”
He blinked at them rapidly, and drew in his mouth, for all the world, Gilkison thought, as though he were pulling tight the top of a sponge bag: a comparison facilitated by his lack of teeth. A thoroughly sly, unpleasant old specimen, the bookseller decided, and an apt confidant for the unlamented Matt.
“Nobody wants to put anything on you, Treweek,” Bradstreet said equably. “What makes you think that?”
“We only want your help,” Ellis added.
Mr. Treweek’s answer was to close his eye and tap the side of his nose.
“I knows the sort of ’elp you gents wants. You wants a chap to say ’e done what ’e never, so as you can put en away and save yourselves the trouble of lookin’ for ’oo reely done it.”
“Hard words,” Ellis said. “Hard words, and ill deserved. I’m surprised at you, Mr. Treweek.”
“I’ve ’ad some,” said the ancient, with satisfaction. “I knows.” He looked at Bradstreet. “Well, you don’t get no ’elp from me this time. I wasn’t nigh the place, not in a mile and a ’alf of it, all afternoon.”
“What place?” Bradstreet’s face was all innocence. “What afternoon?”
“Come off it,” said Mr. Treweek, in disgust. “Keep that talk for babbies. It don’t go with me You knows what I mean, so well as I do. Us all knows you and these ’ere genelmen from Lunnon are goin’ round makin’ wise Matt Baildon was dood away with, w’en all that ’appened was a ’unnerweight o’ books failed ’pon top ees napper.”