Flamborough, completely puzzled by this move, opened the door of the adjoining room and summoned Sir Clinton’s typist.
"I want you to telephone for me, Miss Morcott," the Chief Constable explained. "Ring up Dr. Trevor Markfield at his house. When you get through, say to his housekeeper: ‘Miss Hailsham speaking. Please tell Dr. Markfield that I wish to see him to-night and that I shall come round to his house at nine o’clock.’ Don’t say any more than that, and get disconnected before there’s any chance of explanations."
Miss Morcott carried out Sir Clinton’s orders carefully and then went back to her typing. As soon as the door closed behind her, the Inspector’s suppressed curiosity got the better of him.
"I don’t quite understand all that, sir. I suppose you asked about the photomicrographic affair just to see if these prints could have been made at the Croft-Thornton?"
"I hadn’t much doubt on that point. Photomicrographic apparatus isn’t common among amateur photographers, but it’s common enough in scientific institutes. No, I was really killing two birds with one stone: finding out about the micro-camera and making sure that Miss Hailsham was leaving the place for the night and wouldn’t have a chance to speak to Markfield before she went."
"And what about her calling on Markfield to-night, sir?"
"She’ll have to do it by proxy, I’m afraid. We’ll represent her, however inefficiently, Inspector. The point is that I wanted to be sure that Markfield would be at home when we called; and I wished to avoid making an appointment in my own name lest it should put him too much on his guard. The time’s come when we’ll have to persuade Dr. Markfield to be a bit franker than he’s been, hitherto. I think I see my way to getting out of him most of what he knows; and if I can succeed in that, then we ought to have all the evidence we need."
He paused, as though not very sure about something.
"He’s been bluffing us all along the line up to the present, Inspector. It’s a game two can play at; and you’ll be good enough to turn a deaf ear occasionally if I’m tempted out of the straight path. And whatever happens, don’t look over-surprised at anything I may say. If you can contrive to look thoroughly stupid, it won’t do any harm."
Chapter Seventeen. MR. JUSTICE
Just before entering the road in which Markfield lived, Sir Clinton drew up his car; and as he did so, a constable in plain clothes stepped forward.
"Dr. Markfield’s in his house, sir," he announced. "He came home just before dinner-time."
Sir Clinton nodded, let in his clutch, and drove round the corner to Markfield’s gate. As he stopped his engine, he glanced at the house-front.
"Note that his garage is built into the house, Inspector," he pointed out. "That seems of interest, if there’s a door from the house direct into the garage, I think."
They walked up the short approach and rang the bell. In a few moments the door was opened by Markfield’s housekeeper. Rather to her surprise, Sir Clinton inquired about the health of her relation whom she had been nursing.
"Oh, she’s all right again, sir, thank you. I got back yesterday."
She paused a moment as though in doubt, then added:
"I’m not sure if Dr. Markfield is free this evening, sir. He’s expecting a visitor."
"We shan’t detain him if his visitor arrives," Sir Clinton assured her, his manner leaving no doubt in her mind as to the advisability of his own admission.
The housekeeper ushered them into Markfield’s sitting-room, where they found him by the fire, deep in a book. At the sound of Sir Clinton’s name he looked up with a glance which betrayed his annoyance at being disturbed.
"I’m rather at a loss to understand this visit," he said stiffly, as they came into the room.
Sir Clinton refused to notice the obviously grudging tone of his reception.
"We merely wish to have a few minutes’ talk, Dr. Markfield," he explained pleasantly. "Some information has come into my hands which needs confirmation, and I think you’ll be able to help us."
Markfield glanced at the clock.
"I’m in the middle of an experiment," he said gruffly. "I’ve got to run it through, now that it’s started. If you’re going to be long. I’d better bring the things in here and then I can oversee it while I’m talking to you."
Without waiting for permission, he left the room and came back in a couple of minutes with a tray on which stood some apparatus. Flamborough noticed a conical flask containing some limpid liquid, and a stoppered bottle. Markfield clamped a dropping funnel, also containing a clear liquid, so that its spout entered the conical flask; and by turning the tap of the funnel slightly, he allowed a little of the contents to flow down into the flask.
"I hope the smell doesn’t trouble you," he said, in a tone of sour apology. "It’s the triethylamine I’m mixing with the tetranitromethane in the flask. Rather a fishy stink it has."
He arranged the apparatus on the table so that he could reach the tap conveniently without rising from his chair; then, after admitting a little more of the liquid from the funnel into the flask, he seated himself once more and gave Sir Clinton his attention.
"What is it you want to know?" he demanded abruptly.
Sir Clinton refused to be hurried. Putting his hand into his breast-pocket, he drew out some sheets of typewriting which he placed on the table before him, as though for future reference. Then he turned to his host.
"Some time ago, a man Peter Whalley came to us and made a statement, Dr. Markfield."
Markfield’s face betrayed some surprise.
"Whalley?" he asked. "Do you mean the man who was murdered on the Lizardbridge Road?"
"He was murdered, certainly," Sir Clinton confirmed. "But as I said, he made a statement to us. I’m not very clear about some points, and I think you might be able to fill in one or two of the gaps."
Markfield’s face showed a quick flash of suspicion.
"I’m not very sure what you mean," he said, doubtfully, "If you’re trying to trap me into saying things that might go against Silverdale, I may as well tell you I’ve no desire to give evidence against him. I’m sure he’s innocent; and I don’t wish to say anything to give you a handle against him. That’s frank enough, isn’t it?"
"If it relieves your mind, I may as well say I agree with you on that point, Dr. Markfield. So there’s no reason why you shouldn’t give us your help."
Markfield seemed slightly taken aback by this, but he did his best to hide his feelings.
"Go on, then," he said. "What is it you want?"
Sir Clinton half-opened the paper on the table, then took away his hand as though he needed no notes at the moment.
"It appears that on the night of the affair at the bungalow, when Mrs. Silverdale met her death, Peter Whalley was walking along the Lizardbridge Road, coming towards town," Sir Clinton began. "It was a foggy night, you remember. He’d just passed the bungalow gate when he noticed, ahead of him, the headlights of a car standing by the roadside; and he appears to have heard voices."
The Inspector listened to this with all his ears. Where had Sir Clinton fished up this fresh stock of information, evidently of crucial importance? Then a recollection of the Chief Constable’s warning flashed through his mind and he schooled his features into a mask of impassivity. A glance at Markfield showed that the chemist, though outwardly uninterested, was missing no detail of the story.
"It seems," Sir Clinton went on, "that the late Mr. Whalley came up to the car and found a man and a girl in the front seat. The girl seemed to be in an abnormal state; and Mr. Whalley, from his limited experience, inferred that she was intoxicated. The man, Whalley thought, had stopped the car to straighten her in the seat and make her look less conspicuous; but as soon as Whalley appeared out of the night, the man started the car again and drove slowly past him towards the bungalow."