“Where is this pub?” Ellis asked.
“Off Durnford Street.”
“Shall we go there straight, or have lunch first?”
“It’s twenty past twelve. What do you think?”
“He’ll be there afterwards, I suppose?”
“He will. He’s expecting us.”
“Good. The longer we keep him the better. When’s our train home, did you say?”
“Ten to five.”
“Good. Time for tea before we start. Lunch, then, Bradder. Lunch by all means.”
“It’ll be pretty near one by the time we get it,” Bradstreet was smiling, with the glee of a man evading his conscience.
The hotel recommended by Bradstreet was some little way away, and, as he prophesied, it was five to one before the first dish was set before them. They lunched royally together, their liking for each other swelling and warming as the meal progressed. They did not hurry, but gave their meal ample time to settle—in Ellis’s phrase—and Nelder ample time to grow impatient or apprehensive, according to his mood.
The hotel at which he was staying had the particular look of respectability that manages at a second glance to suggest something sinister. It fitted so perfectly the character given Nelder by Gilkison that Ellis laughed.
A man of mildly horsey appearance sauntered casually up to them as they approached.
“All right?” Bradstreet asked him.
“Yes, sir. He’s there. In the far corner of the lounge.”
They went in, and saw a figure in the corner, sitting with crossed legs, reading one of the more popular newspapers. He raised an eye as they entered, and regarded them with bilious distaste. The face was at first sight handsome; but a nearer view showed that the features added up to a fatal commonness, and the expression was unpleasant. Perhaps it was unfair to judge of the man’s looks at the moment, for he was manifestly in a very bad temper.
Bradstreet accosted him benignly.
“Mr. Nelder?”
“That’s my name.”
“We’d be glad of a little private conversation with you. Is there anywhere else we can go?”
“I’ve nothing to say to you or anyone else that can’t be said here.”
“Happy man,” Ellis purred, and received an envenomed glance.
“That’s all right, then.”
Bradstreet sat down opposite him, and Ellis pulled up a leather armchair.
“Nice weather,” he observed. “You don’t get the best of it in here.”
Bradstreet proceeded to business.
“We are police officers, Mr. Nelder. We are enquiring into the death of Mr. Matthew Baildon, of West Nattering, and we wish to ask you a few questions.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Nelder replied. “I never went near him. I don’t know a thing about it.”
“We’re well aware of your movements during your stay at West Nattering, Mr. Nelder,” Ellis intervened smoothly. “We require no information on that subject. What we would like to hear from you is your reason for visiting the place.”
“I’ve a right to go where I like, haven’t I?”
“Indubitably, Mr. Nelder. Provided that on your travels you do not transgress the law.”
“Who says I have?”
“Nobody, so far. We have no doubt you had an excellent reason for your visit. Won’t you tell us what it was?”
“You have no right to ask me to account for my movements.”
Ellis beamed on him.
“The village of West Nattering, though it has a certain old-world charm, is not at first sight a likely theatre for the activities of a keen man of business like yourself. There is only one feature which could attract you—unless you are fond of watching fish? No. I thought not—only one feature you would find interesting. You are, I understand, a bibliophile? Would that be a fair description? Yes. Then the only feature which could conceivably attract you, in default of the fish, is the library of the late Mr. Matthew Baildon.”
There was a silence, disturbed only by Nelder’s noisy breathing.
“Am I right?” Ellis asked, with innocent wide-open eyes.
“I don’t see why you expect me to tell you my business secrets.”
“Heaven forbid!” Ellis exclaimed piously. “But there is no secret about your interest in Matt Baildon’s books. You communicated it quite openly to a third party.”
“If you know all about it, why are you asking me?”
“Only God knows all, Mr. Nelder. We are but police officers. We would like your corroboration of our few discoveries and our poor surmises. For example: you informed Mr. Stuyvesant, a wealthy American citizen over here on a visit, that Matt Baildon was open to offers for certain books. Where did you get that information?”
“I said before, I’m not giving away any business secrets.”
“I’m afraid we shall have to ask you to make an exception in favour of this one.”
Ellis’s voice was smooth as oil.
“And if I don’t?”
“A very unpleasant construction might be put upon your refusal. By judge and jury.”
“You can’t bluff me,” Nelder said, after a pause.
“We have no wish to. No need to. You must remember that, once information has passed between two parties, there are always two avenues through which it may be recovered. At least two. Come, Mr. Nelder. In your own interest you had better answer the question. How did you hear that Matt Baildon wished to sell a portion of his library?”
Nelder’s face set into a sulky obstinacy, weakened by uneasiness.
“We know that it was not from Baildon himself,” Ellis pursued, “since he did all his business through one man, Mr. Paul Gilkison, of Vigo Street. Mr. Gilkison has assured us of that.”
The mention of his competitor did the trick. Nelder’s face twisted in animosity and contempt.
“That’s all he knows,” he sneered. “I can tell him different. I’ve handled as much of Matt Baildon’s stuff as he has, and more too.”
“Well, well. That is very interesting. How did you get hold of it?”
Nelder flushed to the colour of milk chocolate.
“What do you mean?” he said violently. “How could anyone get hold if it?”
“That is precisely the question. I asked how you got hold of it.”
“How do you think?”
“I could think of several ways,” Ellis told him dreamily. “But I don’t want to match my ingenuity against yours in a field where I should be at a very grave disadvantage. I’d rather hear from you.”
Nelder pursed his lips together. There was a short silence, broken by Bradstreet.
“Let’s take one thing at a time,” he suggested amiably. “It may be quite enough for our purpose if Mr. Nelder will tell us how he got his information this time.”
“Capital, Bradder. Capital. You bring me back from abstract speculation to the present. Never indulge in abstract speculation, Mr. Nelder, except when you are in a hot bath. Even then, don’t go on too long, or you’ll wake up and find the water has gone cold on you. How did you get the information which you gave to Mr. Stuyvesant?”
Nelder still said nothing.
Ellis sighed.
“It is in your interest to tell us. It may take us a long time to find it out for ourselves, but find it out we shall.”
“I had a letter,” Nelder said at last.
“From Matt Baildon?”
“No.”
“From whom, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, oh, oh.”
“May we see the letter?”
“You don’t suppose I carry all my business correspondence around the country with me, do you?”
“Only the letters that belong to the business in hand. Show us the letter, please.”
Nelder struggled with his feelings. At last he put his hand into his inside breast pocket, drew out a wallet, and from it extracted a folded piece of paper which he pushed sulkily over.