perhaps the letters Mrs Connon had received could have been associated with phone-calls as well.' Pascoe sighed at the arrogance of youth in general and this youth in particular. 'The thought had occurred to us, sir. There's little chance of checking up on it. We did ask Mr Connon if he recalled any unusual telephone calls – any that he answered, I mean, when the caller just rang off. He said no. And it would be curious if Mrs Connon took one while he was there and said nothing of it.' 'Or even when he was not there. But she hadn't mentioned the letters.'
'No, sir. Well, if that's all…?'
He moved to the door. 'Oh please, Sergeant. I would not presume to try to do your job. No, I haven't come down here with suggestions – that would be presumptuous – but with information, or what might be. This chap had obviously been watching Mrs Connon in her bedroom, from the street almost certainly, or the garden. When I was waiting at the Connons the other night before you all so efficiently arrested me, I had occasion to use the phone- box almost opposite the house. I rang my parents to say where I was. I also took the opportunity of giving them Mr Connon's phone number so they could contact me if they wished. To do this, I had to look in the directory.'
'And?'
'And it was heavily underlined.' Pascoe's mind was racing so fast he had to make an effort of will to bring it under control. Two or three small elements on the edge of the puzzle seemed to be coming together. But whether they were related directly to the main body of the puzzle was not yet clear. But it was a possibility. But that's all it is, he told himself. A possibility has been suggested to you. Nothing more. A theory. But he could hardly wait to get rid of Antony so that he could test it. 'It seemed odd at the time,' the youth went on, unconscious of his sudden undesirability. 'Why should anyone want the telephone number of a house only twenty yards away?' T can think of a dozen good reasons,' smiled Pascoe. 'But I'm very grateful to you, Mr Wilkes. Thank you for coming. If there's ever anything else you would like to tell me, please call in.' 'Do I detect a note of irony?' asked Antony cheerfully. Then I will be off. I am a sensitive plant. Like asparagus, I take a long time to grow and am easily killed off.' 'But you have a most delicate flavour all of your own,' said Pascoe as he ushered him out.
'Saucy,' said Antony. 'Bye!'
Dalziel was still on the phone. Pascoe began sorting rapidly through the papers on his desk. Dalziel put the phone down with a ping that rippled violently across the room. 'Roberts,' he said.
'I know,' said Pascoe.
'Tell me, why do I have to pay my informants a quid or more a time while you have snouts who could buy and sell both of us and who rush to buy you drinks whenever you appear?' 'Beauty,' said Dalziei. 'I have a beautiful soul. What're you doing?'
'Just reading a report.'
Quickly he told Dalziei what he had just learned from Antony and of the train of thought this had started in his mind.
When he finished Dalziei nodded appreciatively.
'I like that,' he said. Then, almost modestly he added, 'I've got a little something too. Perhaps there is a God.'
He rolled his eyes at the ceiling.
There isn't a God, thought Pascoe. No one capable of creating kangaroos could have resisted hitting him in the face with a divine custard pie.
'What did he give you?'
'Nothing much, really. Some odds and ends. But one interesting thing about a gentleman we may have overlooked. Mr Felstead.' Tubby little Marcus?' laughed Pascoe. 'Well, he is overlookable.' 'Don't underestimate him. He's a man of parts, used to be a very nippy little scrum-half, and he's still a very enthusiastic wing-forward.' 'Was,' amended Pascoe. 'He seems to have given up. That's what he said on Saturday. What about him anyway?' 'Well, his best service to the Club at the moment is perhaps in the club-house. He's not married, he's keen, reliable, and he has a lot of time. So he helps a hell of a lot. With the bar, that kind of thing.'
'So.'
'He was on the bar the night Mary Connon was killed.'
'I know. It's in here somewhere.'
Pascoe struck his papers with the palm of his hand. A little dust drifted up.
'So was Sid Hope.'
'Yes.' 'So, from his own graphic account of the exit and reentry of Evans that night, was Ted Morgan. But you never asked him why.' 'Well, he did begin to go on about it being unusual for him to be that side of the bar, but I told him to get on with it.' 'Not bullying him, I hope, Sergeant,' he said reproachfully.
It was Pascoe's turn to roll his eyes at the heavens.
'Anyway,' said Dalziel, 'Morgan was on because Felstead was off.'
'Off?'
'For almost two hours. Off. No one knows where.'
He stood up and reached for his hat.
'What's worse, no one has asked where.'
Pascoe stood up too.
'Would you like me to…?' 'No thank you, Sergeant. I'll have a chat. Tonight. You'll be out yourself, won't you? Drop in at the Club later and exchange notes.' He put his hat on, flung his coat over his arm and went to the door.
'And Sergeant,' he said, as he closed it behind him.
'Marcus Felstead has a car. A cream-coloured Hillman. See you later.' Dave Fernie was shouting at his wife. Alice Fernie was shouting at her husband. The room was in a state of some disorder, but as yet, the little cool area at the back of Alice's mind told her, no permanent damage had been done. The evening paper flung aside violently and scattering into its separate half-dozen sheets accounted for a good fifty per cent of the chaos. A coffee cup had been knocked off the arm of Fernie's chair, but there wasn't much left in it and the stain would be easily removable. The saucer had broken, however. A single cushion had been hurled across the room and it lay on the edge of the fireplace. She would have to move it before it singed. It had struck the wall and disturbed a line of three china ducks. The middle one looked as if it had been shot and was going into its final dive. Even as she observed this, it did just that, slithered off the nail which supported it and plunged headfirst into the deep blue of the mantelpiece. That was no great loss, either. She'd never liked them much; in fact she had only kept them up so long because Mary Connon long ago, almost on her first visit to the house, had been openly patronizing about them. It was a kind of V-sign, ever present, to keep them there. But now that reason was gone, and the memory that remained of it seemed rather mean and cheap. It was time they were down. All these thoughts and observations co-existed with the words she was hurling across at her husband. 'You'll end up in jail!' she yelled. 'Or you'll be paying damages for the rest of your life!' 'It's a free country!' he shouted. 'I'll say what I bloody well think. I'm as good as he is. There's one law for us all!' 'You were lucky last time!' she screamed. 'He didn't care for the law. He just worked you over a bit, put you in hospital, big man!' 'Let him try that.' Bloody rugby pJayers! Bloody creampuff. I'll take him apart.' 'Can't you see, Dave? Are you blind? You'll just get us all in trouble. We've had enough. Can't you leave it alone?' The note of appeal in her voice was obviously analysed as a sign of weakness. 'Leave it alone? Why should I, for God's sake? I reckon the man's knocked off his wife and he's getting away with it! Someone's got to say something. The bloody law won't!' There was a brief pause, Alice silent in despair, Fernie for want of breath. Through the silence rang a bell as if signalling the end of a round in a boxing match.
'Who the hell's this?' snarled Fernie.
Alice didn't answer. She was moving round the room at great speed for so heavily built a woman. The newspaper resumed its normal shape, the broken duck and the pieces of saucer were dropped in the coal scuttle, Fernie got the cushion back hard in his chest.
The bell rang again.
Smoothing back her hair, Alice went to the front door and opened it.
Pascoe stood there.
'Hello, Mrs Fernie. I was beginning to think the bell was broken.'
'Who the hell is it?' asked Fernie again from the livingroom.
Pascoe walked in with a smile.
'It's only the bloody law, Mr Fernie.'
Fernie glowered at him, corrugating his eyebrows to aggressive bristles. 'You've been listening at keyholes,
