"He told Inspector Cook he hadn't got one," said Wake dubiously.
"Then he'd better think one up!" said Hemingway.
The Prince, however, discovered disconsolately flicking over the pages of a book in the doctor's pleasant library, was so relieved to hear that his presence in Stilhurst was no longer necessary, that he made no bones at all about divulging his address, but informed Sergeant Wake that he had a pied-a-terre in a private hotel in Bloomsbury. The Sergeant wrote it down, and the Prince said that for himself he would be very glad to be in London again. "I find it does not suit me, this English country life," he announced. "One stifles, in fact! There is no conversation; it is not amusing."
But when he informed his host of his imminent departure, nothing could have exceeded the grace with which he assured him that these days spent under his roof would remain in his memory as some of the most pleasant in his whole life.
The doctor said something conventionally civil; and, in answer to an anxious inquiry, advised the Prince most strongly not to adventure his person within the precincts of Palings.
"But it is absurd!" the Prince said. "It is seen that I had nothing to do with Carter's death! Rather it is Mr. Steel whom the police suspect, is it not so?"
"I really can't say," replied Chester stiffly.
"I wash my hands of the affair!" said the Prince. "But I must tell you, since you have been to me so extremely kind, that if it is Mr. Steel whom the police suspect, I must be glad, for he is not, after all, de nous autres, and I have had some fears that you, my friend, might suffer a little unpleasantness."
The doctor looked up quickly. "I?"
"But, yes!" smiled the Prince. "An absurdity, you say, but I find that your English police are very stupid, what you call thickheaded. Ah, pardon! It is ridiculous, without sense! Yet when one considers how I have been suspected, for no reason, except that I was out in Vicky's auto, one must be prepared for the police to suspect you, who were also not at home."
"I was out on a case," said Chester, his eyes stern under his frowning brows.
The Prince made a deprecatory gesture. "But of course! Do I not know it? It is merely that these policemen '
"Nor," interrupted Chester, "do I know what conceivable motive I could have had for murdering one of my patients!"
"My friend!" The Prince flung up his hands. "I am sure you had none! I am sorry that I spoke of it, but indeed it seemed to me that you must have thought of it yourself. It is forgotten! Do not fear that I shall speak of it!"
"If you're wise, you won't," said Chester grimly. "I could hardly afford to let such a statement go unchallenged. We have a law of libel in this country."
"Absurd!" murmured the Prince. "You mistake me, I assure you! Without doubt, the police know you too well to concern themselves with your movements."
He was not quite right, for Inspector Cook, pondering still over the case, had remembered that Chester had not been in his house at the time of the murder, and had thought fit to mention this circumstance, though reluctantly, to Hemingway. His own chief, Superintendent Small, snubbed him immediately. "The doctor was called cut on a case, as might happen to any doctor," he said. "What reason would he have to kill Carter, that's what I should like to know?"
"Only that he's very friendly with Mrs. Carter - to put it no higher," replied Cook. "Mind you, sir, I'm not saying there's anything in it, for I'm sure I haven't anything against Dr Chester, and I know he's highly respected. But it just flashed across my mind, in a manner of speaking."
"You'd better forget it," said Small. "Pack of rubbish!"
"Yes, sir," said Cook, rather woodenly.
"That's all right," interposed Hemingway. "I'm always grateful for a bit of help. I wouldn't like you to think I haven't taken the doctor into account, because I have. But so far I haven't had so much as a smell of a motive. That isn't to say I won't have, of course."
"Are you looking for one?" asked Small, staring at him.
"High and low," responded the Inspector promptly. To his Sergeant, a moment or two later, when they were alone, he added: "And that's truer than what old fat-face thinks. At least, when I say I'm hunting high and low, what I mean is that some other mug's going round Chipston making a fool of himself. I'm what you might call the brains behind the organisation."
"Do you mean you're expecting to find that Chester's the heir to the old mad woman's money?" demanded Wake, startled out of his customary stolidity.
"The secret of being a highly efficient officer," said Hemingway, fixing him with a quelling look, "is on the one hand never to expect anything, and on the other never to be surprised at anything either. You remember that, my lad, and you may do as well as I have. I don't say you will, because your psychology's bad and you haven't got vision, but you may. What's the time?"
"Going on for four o'clock," replied Wake, swallowing these strictures with a visible effort.
The Inspector frowned, and lit a cigarette from the stub of his old one. "If Aunt Clara isn't something Carter saw in an opium-dream, I ought to be hearing from the Chief pretty soon."
The call from. London came through five minutes later, and the Sergeant, informed that Superintendent Hannasyde wanted to speak to Inspector Hemingway, handed over the receiver to his superior, and tried to look as though he were not listening. He soon abandoned this detached attitude, for the half of the conversation which he could hardly have helped hearing was too maddeningly tantalising to be ignored.
"That you, sir?" said Hemingway. "I've been getting what you might call a bit jumpy. Did they find anything?…They did?… You don't say!… On no, I'm not surprised: I thought they would… They got what?… Oh, trustee! Yes, I get it. Was he able to tell us who the present heir is?… Nice work, sir! Let me have it!"
The Sergeant, stealing a glance at him, saw his face stiffen. He had been lying back at his ease in his chair, but he sat bolt upright all at once. "Say that again, Chief!" he requested. "What name did you say?… You don't mean it? Well, I'll be Good God!… Convey anything to me! Yes, it does!… What's that?… He doesn't know what?… The address! Oh, he doesn't, doesn't he? Well, that's where I'm one up on him, because I do!… Yes, right here, under my nose!… No, it's got me gasping around like a landed fish… Not a breath!… Not so much as a whiff of suspicion! Right out of the picture!… Here, tell me this, sir! What's the sum total of this precious fortune… What, pounds? I'd do a murder myself for that… Finished? No, nor anything like it, but I will be, don't you fret, sir!"
He laid the instrument gently down on its rest, and drew a long breath. Across the table, his eyes met the Sergeant's avid gaze. "I wouldn't have believed it!" he said, and shook his head. "But a hundred thousand pounds! Is that a motive, or is it a motive? Do you know who's the heir, to that little nest-egg, Wake?"
"No!" almost shouted the Sergeant. "I do not, sir, but I'd like to!"
"White," said Hemingway. "Mr. Harold White, my lad."
There was a moment's astonished silence. The Sergeant broke it. "But he couldn't have killed Carter, sir!"
"If he didn't, I'll resign from the Force," said Hemingway.
"But, Inspector, you saw the spot where he was standing when Carter was shot! It wasn't within sight of the bridge! It wasn't anywhere near where the gun was found!"
"He wasn't within forty yards of where the rifle was found," agreed Hemingway. "More like fifty, from what I remember. This bird is a pleasure to deal with!"
"Look here, sir!" besought the Sergeant. "Setting that aside, isn't it a fact he was hoping to get money out of Carter for his little land-racket? Why, he'd even started negotiations to buy the land, let alone bringing Jones up to the house to talk business with Carter!"