Pointer looked at him intently. “I’m not sure. It wouldn’t go any further if I did. But you needn’t get the idea that I’m going to cover up for you if you insist on inviting more suspicion. At least you should have a go at Biggadyke and let it get around that you’d questioned him.”
Larch considered. “I might,” he said.
“Good. That’s sensible. Of course”—Pointer stood up and stared at the hat band of his bowler—“I don’t say the fellow’s necessarily guilty. You might be able to write him off altogether.”
To this. Larch said nothing.
“And Hector, I do seriously advise you not to see so much of him for a while. Not until this thing’s settled. Tell him to give Hilda a miss, too.”
“I think you might leave me just a little discretion.”
“As you like. I wouldn’t have said anything, except that you don’t seem to realize what trouble you might be bringing on yourself. And the family.”
“The family?”
“Well...Hilda. And me.”
“And dear mother-in-law?”
Pointer gave a short, humourless laugh.
When he had gone, Larch remained for some time gazing blankly at the papers on his desk. Then he lifted the telephone and asked for the Chalmsbury Carriage Company.
Stanley Biggadyke accepted a seat in the chief inspector’s office and grinned in turn at Larch and at Sergeant Worple, who sat in the attitude of an umpire a few feet from the side of the desk.
“You may be wondering,” Larch began, “why I asked if you would be good enough to come and see us, Mr Biggadyke.” He turned his head slightly in the sergeant’s direction as if to acknowledge his share in the proceedings.
“Well, actually...”
“The fact is,” Larch smoothly resumed, “that I wished to ask you a few questions in connection with a routine inquiry we are making. I thought you would prefer the interview to take place here rather than in your own office where unnecessary speculation might be aroused.”
“Oh yes. Sure.” Biggadyke crossed his legs and nodded sagely.
“So we shall begin by stating what you doubtless know already, Mr Biggadyke: that on three Tuesday nights this month, including last night, there have been explosions in the town which severely damaged various pieces of property.”
“Another one last night, eh? You don’t say.”
“Yes, sir. In Watergate Street. The others were in the Jubilee Park on June third and in the Zion Church courtyard on June seventeen. Nobody hurt, but that doesn’t mean we should view these things less seriously.”
“Of course not.” Biggadyke rubbed a puce-coloured cheek and pouted virtuously.
“In the absence of information that might suggest the identity of the culprit,” continued Larch, ponderously, “we are obliged at this stage to pay rather more attention to gossip than we should normally be inclined to do, and to question every person whose name has happened to be mentioned. Of course, you quite understand, Mr Biggadyke, that this implies no actual suspicion on our part. We wish merely to eliminate everyone who can give a reasonable account of himself. Routine, you know, sir.”
Biggadyke’s expression had turned a little fractious. “What’s this about mentioning names?”
Larch raised a long, bony hand. “Now, Mr Biggadyke, no particular accusations have been made by anybody. But these explosions were arranged very skilfully. You’ll agree that not many local people have much in the way of technical knowledge. It’s only natural that anyone like yourself, with engineering or electrical qualifications, should come to mind. We should like to eliminate you from our inquiries, that’s all, sir.”
Worple, who had never seen his chief in so conciliatory a mood, watched him with one eyebrow raised and slightly open mouth.
“All right,” said Biggadyke, expansively. “Go ahead: eliminate me.”
Larch smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I imagine I need only ask you to give some brief account of your whereabouts during the three nights in question, sir. I’m not requiring a formal statement. Just tell me confidentially; you’re under no obligation, of course.”
Worple shut his mouth, swallowed, and looked across at Biggadyke. The dark, blood-laden face was puckered in thought. The powerful shoulders were hunched and one hand was occupied in smoothing expensive suiting over a thigh like a young hog.
Suddenly, Biggadyke slapped his leg (Worple almost expected a squeal to result) and gave Larch a triumphant leer. “Tuesdays. They were all Tuesdays, weren’t they? Well, I’m out of town every Tuesday night. You can ask the missus. Anyway, you should know that yourself, boy. It’s club night over at Flax. I stay on at a pal’s place afterwards. Bert Smiles. He’ll tell you.”
At the familiarity of ‘boy’ Larch frowned and glanced to see if Worple had noticed, but the sergeant’s expression remained blank.
“Oh well, sir,” he said heartily, “that seems absolutely satisfactory. You could hardly be in two places at once, could you?”
“Hardly,” Biggadyke agreed. His tone conveyed the controlled surprise of a man who learns that he has just said the right thing.
“And if it should ever be necessary to check your statement, sir,” said Larch, drawing a pad of paper towards him, “the club is...”
