“I should be happy to do so,” said I, bobbing at the waist in a tight little bow, “He will admit me to deliver your message. He does sometimes prefer to sit alone and consider those matters that weigh upon him.”
“I quite understand,” said he, returning my bow most gracefully.
“If you will excuse me,” said I.
Turning, I left him where he stood and made straight for the door to Sir John’s chambers. Contrary to what I had said to Mr. Millhouse, I was quite confident that I should be invited in — and I was. Closing the door quietly behind me, I made swiftly across the room to the desk. Sir John leaned across it in a conspiratorial manner.
“He’s here now,” whispered Sir John. “Millhouse, I mean.”
“I know,” said I. “He spoke with me out in the corridor.”
“We must think of something for you to do, some work for you here whilst I put questions to him.”
“Those boxes in the comer,” said I. “They’re filled with papers. I’ll go through them and divide them in piles.”
“Perfect,” said Sir John, quiet as he could. “Call him in now.”
I opened the door and did so, then swiftly did I retreat to the biggest of the boxes, threw it open, and scattered papers about. Let Mr. Millhouse make what he will of it, said I to myself.
This subterfuge, though perhaps not absolutely necessary, was occasioned by Sir John’s desire to have an observer present during those interrogations he deemed to be of potential importance. Sir John believed that one who told lies must needs always give some indication of it. If not in his voice, then in his eyes, his manner of breathing, even in the posture he assumes on a chair. “A man might even tell the truth,” he had said, “and betray worry over his answer — even worry over the question. When I know what worries a man, I shall know better how to direct my interrogations.”
And so it was that when Mr. Millhouse entered, he found me in a comer, worrying over a great stack of papers. That comer afforded me an angle from which I might view his face as he would converse with Sir John.
“Come in, come in, sir,” said the magistrate. “Sit down, please. Perhaps you can tell me a bit more of poor Poll’s background, her visitors, and so on.”
“Perhaps I can,” said Mr. Millhouse. He looked round him then. His glance seemed to linger upon me. At last he eased down into a chair which stood directly opposite Sir John; only the desk separated them.
“Oh … I hope the presence of Jeremy will not disturb you greatly. I have given him a task of sorting through past records of the Bow Street Court. The Lord Chief Justice has demanded a survey of us, and it must be done.” “No, no, that’s quite all right.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Millhouse, your wife was quite forthcoming regarding Priscilla Tarkin’s unfortunate circumstances and sterling character, and so on, and while Tm sure what she said was quite accurate, so far as it went, it was not the sort of information likely to help our inquiry into the death of the poor woman. I was hoping that you, as a man and as Polly’s neighbor, might have been more observant of her habits, her commerce, and so on.” “Well, I’ll tell you what I can, of course.” “How long were you acquainted with her?” “The entire six months we have been here in London.” “And how was it that you became aware of her — what shall we call it? — her line of work? Surely she herself didn’t inform you immediately?”
“No, certainly not. I would say that our knowledge came only gradually.”
He seemed to grow more tense. His hands, which he had rested on his knees, no longer rested; they twitched a bit as his fingers examined the seams of his breeches. “Not long after our arrival, perhaps a month, we were wakened quite late at night by an awful row next door. The wall between her place and our own seems quite thin. In any case, there were cries and shouts, and one of the voices distinctly male. An accusation of theft was made and denied. My wife urged me to go next door to see what I could do to settle the matter, or at least calm them down. I was just pulling on my clothes when suddenly we heard the door slam and loud footsteps departing. Well, one naturally wonders at a male guest well after midnight, or perhaps one assumes the obvious; I know I did. My wife was unwilling to do so, and so next day she approached Poll in a manner most sympathetic and heard from her the story she gave you yestermorn. She had already formed an affection for the woman; her pity for her now deepened it.”
“But you said you came upon this gradually,” said Sir John. “There must have been hints earlier.”
“Well, there were. First of all, she was a widow, living alone, and had no means of support that I could tell. She slept late in the morning. And I had already spied her out on the street in the evening, loitering about in such a way as to make herself available to conversation with Strang-ers.
“I see. Now, if I may take you back to that occasion when you and your wife were wakened by the row, let me ask you this: Was the accusation of theft which you mentioned made in her voice? I know that women of the streets are often preyed upon by thieves of every sort. We are now searching for one who made a practice of robbing prostitutes of their earnings. He was seen quarreling with her earlier on the night she was murdered. Did the male voice you heard give indication of a foreign accent?”
“Oh no, nothing of the kind,” said he. “First of all, it would have been difficult to say that the man in question spoke, as you describe, with an accent that might be described as foreign. I only heard him say quite clearly, ‘You got it, ain’t you, you thieving bitch.’ Pardon the language. You see, he it was who accused her. And her response was all in denial.”
“Oh? Interesting. Did you see men entering her room in her company?”
“No, never, which seems curious, since our rooms were adjoining. On a number of occasions, however, we heard male voices.”
“In accusation?”
“Not that we could tell. There were no more rows, in any case.”
It is worth noting at this point that gradually Mr. Mill-house had relaxed during the last questions put to him by Sir John. However, during the next few he tensed as never before. His body seemed to coil. He shifted his position in his chair so restlessly that I should have thought him sitting on a cushion of thorns had I not often sat in it myself.
”You mentioned having seen her on the street before the night of the row. Did you see her afterwards upon occasion as you have described — loitering, on the lookout, as it might be?”
“Yes, on a number of occasions.”
“Was she sometimes in conversation with men?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Well, did you take note of them, sir? What did they look like? Did you see her more than once with the same man?”
“No, no, no, really. Sir John, I took no notice of them at all.” Mr. Millhouse sounded near as agitated as he appeared. “It was most embarrassing to meet her in such situations. I looked away and hurried past. I had no wish to scrutinize those she sought to tempt.”
“When you met her on the street just so,” said Sir John, “did she speak in greeting? Did she give some sign of recognition? Did she smile or perhaps nod her head?”
“No… well, yes, perhaps. I don’t know. Why do you ask such a question? Well, all right, I suppose I must answer. On a few occasions she did greet me.”
“I take it these were occasions when there was no man about.”
“Of course!”
“And how did she greet you, Mr. Millhouse? Did she seem to look upon you as a potential client?”
“No!”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because she gave an ordinary greeting as one might give a neighbor — ‘Good day, Mr. Millhouse,’ or some such.”
“And what was your response to her neighborly greeting?”
“I told you! I hurried by. Oh, I may have given her a hello in return, but I certainly did not stop to pass the time of day!”
“And why not, sir? From your description, I would say that you snubbed her. Why did you do that?”