He was a heavily built man of fifty or so with a melancholy, jowled face but tigerish, slate-grey eyes. He stood about five feet ten, and in spite of the cold, wore no greatcoat over his brass-decorated two-tone uniform.
‘By pokey, I’ve met some cases of obstruction since I came to this perishing island — I’ve met a few, and then some! But don’t nobody think they’re going to get away with the murder of a United States citizen — don’t let them think it for one teeny-weeny little moment — because you want to know something?’
‘I-’ began Sir Daynes, seizing the opportunity.
‘They aren’t!’ blazed Colonel Rynacker. ‘No, sir! Never! Not on your life! Not in this world! Not if the president of the United States has personally to arraign Elizabeth Two by the Grace of God and Senator McCarthy — they aren’t!’
‘Hah!’ got in Sir Daynes crisply. ‘Now if you’ll just-’
‘And no goddam lord is going to save his neck either — I’m telling you. I don’t care if it’s the classiest neck in this and six other peerages — if that’s the neck, by hokey, it’s going to be stretched, and Dwight P. Rynacker is going to stand by and see it done. Now — who are you?’
Sir Daynes extended his hand with simple dignity.
‘I am Sir Daynes Broke, chief constable of Northshire, Colonel,’ he said.
‘You are?’ Colonel Rynacker absent-mindedly seized the hand and began to pump it energetically. ‘Well, let me tell you a few things, chief constable — let me tell you! First off, what in the heck do you mean by obstructing the press in the free exercise of its prerogative in this case, hey? What do you mean by it?’
‘The press?’ queried Sir Daynes, also pumping. ‘Who says the press have been obstructed, eh, eh?’
‘I say they’ve been obstructed!’ boomed Colonel Rynacker, pumping harder than ever. ‘Haven’t I just been talking to those boys out there? Haven’t you just sent a cop to shut down the security on them?’
‘Pooh, pooh!’ countered Sir Daynes. ‘They will receive all the necessary information-’
‘Yeah, yeah — then why aren’t they in on the case?’
‘In this country, Colonel-’
‘In this country you can hush it up!’
‘In this country we do not permit-’
‘It’s a goddam lord, so you put a muzzle on the press!’
‘We do not permit the publication of information which may prejudice the subsequent trial!’ barked Sir Daynes, irritation getting the better part of diplomacy. ‘The press are kept informed, sir. As far as we can do so without prejudice, we give them every facility to report on the progress of a case. But we do not permit the press to obstruct us in the course of our duties, neither do we permit them to publish — and, sir, I may say that they would not want to publish — anything likely to interfere with the free exercise of justice!’
‘Gimme back my hand!’ bawled the colonel, dragging it away from Sir Daynes, who was performing prodigies with it. ‘Great suffering catfish, do you have to dislocate a man’s arm while you’re laying the goddam law down? I had rheumatism in that arm ever since I set foot in this fog-happy corner of nowhere!’
Sir Daynes relinquished the afflicted member, but the light of battle ceased not to gleam in his eye. Colonel Rynacker nursed his arm fondly and made experimental movements with his fingers.
‘Preposterous accusation!’ snorted Sir Daynes.
‘Yeah, I can see it spread over the Herald-Tribune,’ said the colonel.
‘Doing our duty, sir, regardless of rank or nationality!’
‘Doing mine too, chief constable, and don’t try obstructing the United States Air Force.’
‘Obstruction, sir!’ rapped Sir Daynes, rearing up. ‘You seem obsessed with the idea — who in the world is obstructing you, sir?’
Colonel Rynacker’s eye wandered over the stone-cold walls of the marble hall, and returned to the baronet with the ghost of a twinkle.
‘You are, you goddam old war-horse!’ he replied. ‘What d’you mean by keeping a rheumaticky USAF colonel hanging about in this sonofabitch of an icebox — do you want to kill me off before I can get my hooks in you?’
It took a certain amount of Merely Place Scotch and a good deal of hard, factual talking to get Colonel Rynacker out of Sir Daynes’s grizzled locks. The martinet of Sculton Airfield was full of dark suspicion about events at Merely, and much sold on the idea that if Lord Somerhayes was the culprit, it would need the US Military Police to put him well and truly on the spot.
‘Be honest, Bart! Just when was the last occasion that a British lord was strung up on a homicide count, huh?’
Sir Daynes wrinkled his brow, but could think of no such occasion. Gently, on being applied to, was able to suggest the execution of Laurence, Earl Ferrers, in 1760, for the taking-off of his steward, but the two centuries succeeding had been very low in distinguished gallowings.
‘And what’s the answer?’ demanded Colonel Rynacker triumphantly. ‘I ask you, is it logical that these guys knock off a lesser percentage than their neighbours? You tell me that! And if they do knock them off, how come they don’t never get strung up like you and me — what makes me think they’re goddam fireproof?’
He departed at last, appeased if not satisfied, and an anxious Sir Daynes went hot-foot to the scene of the interrogations. Here, alas, there was small comfort to be had. Inspector Dyson had been hammering as directed, but all his smithwork on the weavers had struck out little in the way of sparks. As a body, they had gossipped about Johnson’s weakness for Mrs Page; as individual witnesses, they refused to give positive and undeniable evidence of fact.
‘They’re a confounded trades union — that’s what it is!’ snapped the baronet, wringing his hands anguishedly. ‘Can’t they realize, between them, that we’re trying to pin a blasted murderer? Get Johnson in here — that damn feller has got to talk!’
Johnson came in, looking sullen and dangerous. There was no doubt that by now he had realized the role he was being cast for. He sat down without being asked, and deliberately rolled himself a foul-smelling cigarette. A lesser man than Sir Daynes might have quailed under the vindictive stare the Welshman gave him.
‘Now, Johnson-’ began Dyson, in a brook- no-nonsense tone of voice.
‘Well?’ fired the ex-miner, the word coming like a bullet.
‘I think I should warn you, Johnson-’
‘It’s kind we are!’ interrupted the Welshman, spewing shag-smoke at his interrogator.
Inspector Dyson rose to his feet. He was no mean figure, when it came to comparisons. He leant across the table, his two large fists supporting him, and gave the Welshman the benefit of a grade-one inspectorial drilling.
‘Just before we go any further-’
‘Aye?’ broke in Johnson.
‘We’ll remember where we are, and who it is we’re talking to!’
A little smile turned the corners of the Welshman’s mouth. A dreamy look stole momentarily into his blazing eyes. ‘Ohhh!’ he said, with deceptive softness. ‘The inspector wants to make something of it — yes, he wants to make something of it!’ And he drove a jet of smoke straight into Dyson’s face.
It happened so quickly that there was no time to intervene. The goaded Dyson swept a fist which should have decapitated his seated tormentor. Instead, it swept the air. Instead, something with the jolt of a pile-driver sent him reeling back into his chair.
‘Do you like it!’ roared the Welshman. ‘Do you like my little right hook, man? If you come outside a moment, I will show it to you again — though you will have to be a bloody sight faster, if you are going to see it coming!’
‘Arrest that man!’ bawled Sir Daynes. ‘Gently — Potter! Grab him before he does for someone else!’
‘Before I do for you, more like it!’ shouted the enraged Johnson. ‘Do you think I don’t know, man, what you are trying to pin on me?’
Nevertheless, he was brought to order with the minimum of physical persuasion. That one, beautiful punch out of nowhere seemed to have soothed the overstrung pugnacity of his nature. Dyson was picked up and restored to office, Sir Daynes smoothed his ruffled plumage, and the constable, Potter, stood resting a dutiful hand on the prisoner’s shoulder.
‘Hrm-hrmp!’ snorted the baronet. ‘You’ve just made a confounded mistake, my man — confounded mistake. Going to commit you forthwith — assault on a police officer. And damn lucky you’ll be if you walk out again in a
