picked it up and looked at it admiringly.
'Nice,' he said. 'Is it convenient to talk with you now, sir?'
'I am expecting a client,' began Cowley, glancing at the ormolu clock resting on a shelf above what looked like the room's original fireplace, carved out of York stone before it started getting pretty. Something had been worrying Pascoe and now he recalled that on his previous visit just over twenty-four hours earlier, Cowley's room had been the other one. He had wasted no time. And this room clearly bore the mark of the kind of man Lewis had been if Dalziel's sources were good. He remembered also the kind of thing stolen from Lewis’s house. It all fitted a picture of a man who enjoyed the good things of life with a fine indiscrimination.
'Just a couple of minutes, please,' said Dalziel, adding magnanimously, 'we shall leave, of course, as soon as your client arrives.'
He put down the cigarette-box and seated himself in the most comfortable-looking chair. Cowley, butler-like, picked up the box and took it to Dalziel.
'Cigarette, Superintendent?'
'Thank you, no. It's a habit I've broken.'
Since when? wondered Pascoe. This morning at the earliest! Some people break habits quicker than others.
'Now, Mr Cowley, the thing is this. We're anxious to get in touch with an acquaintance of Mr Lewis's, a Mr John Atkinson. Do you know him by any chance?'
'Well, yes. I think so. If it's the same one. Hang on a moment, will you?'
He rose, opened a rather over-ornate walnut cabinet and took from it a folder.
'Here we are. Atkinson, John. This was one of perhaps half a dozen clients Matt took a very personal interest in. Looking at the file, I remember why now. He met Mr Atkinson up at Lochart, that's where he had his cottage, you know. That's one of the addresses we had for him, the Lochart Hotel.'
'And the other?' asked Dalziel.
'Another hotel. The Shelley in Bayswater. That's in London.'
'Thank you,' said Dalziel. 'What was Mr Atkinson's interest down here?'
'He was nearing retiring age, I believe. Had known the area a long time ago and talking with Matt had revived old memories. So he was looking round in a rather desultory fashion. You know, popping in occasionally and breaking his journey between London and Scotland.'
'When did you last see him, sir?' asked Dalziel.
'Only yesterday morning. In fact, I think he was here when your sergeant came. If only you'd thought to mention him then, Sergeant.'
Dalziel looked reprovingly at Pascoe and shook his head.
'Can't be helped. Why was he here, sir?'
'Why, he'd read about Matt's death, of course, and come down specially to find out what had happened. He called on Mrs Lewis, I believe. He was most upset. The odd thing was he'd turned up by the chance on Monday afternoon and seen Matt then when he came back from Scotland.'
'By chance you say?' said Dalziel, exchanging glances with Pascoe.
'Oh yes. He just drifted in. He didn't realize the office is normally closed that afternoon. So he chatted for a while, saw that we were busy, and went on his way. He was very struck by the coincidence.'
'Yes, yes, he would be. Yesterday you said he came down, didn't you. From Scotland, you mean?'
'I've no idea,' said Cowley. 'Possibly.'
He took a cigarette and lit it from a table lighter which matched the box.
'Which would mean he was on his way up from London on Monday.'
'I suppose so.'
'But he wasn't in Lochart on Monday or Tuesday, Mr Cowley,' said Dalziel mildly. 'We checked.'
'Perhaps it was the other way round.'
'You mean he came down from Lochart on Monday? And called in here, knowing his friend Mr Lewis was still in Scotland?'
'I don't think they lived in each other's pockets, Superintendent.'
'No. Of course not. Where did he stay overnight when he was house-hunting?'
'Really, I've no idea. This was Matt's client, as I've told you. I only met the man two or three times. And then just for a couple of minutes. Is that all you wanted to ask me, Superintendent!'
He stood up, looking very irritated, stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at his watch. Dalziel ignored the hint.
'Have you ever been to Lochart yourself, Mr Cowley?'
'No. Never.' There might have been a hesitation, thought Pascoe. An idea was forming in his mind.
'Do you know a Mr Edgar Sturgeon?' he interjected. Dalziel looked sharply at him, then settled back in his chair as if to enjoy the act.
'No. I don't think so,' said Cowley.
'Stocky. Grey-haired. Mid-sixties. Retired,' rattled off Pascoe.
'Sorry, he doesn't ring a bell.'
It was probably a daft idea, thought Pascoe, but he might as well try. He took out his notebook.
'I wonder if you can recall where you were on this week-end, sir,' he said. He read out the date of the meeting between Archie Selkirk and Sturgeon.
Cowley whistled.
'God knows. That's a while ago, isn't it?'
'I realize that, sir. Do try. A diary, perhaps?' suggested Pascoe.
'I don't keep one. Only my office diary and that doesn't run to week-ends,' said Cowley, flicking through the pages of his leatherbound desk diary. 'Hang on though. You're in luck.'
'Yes?'
'Well, most of that week-end I was here. Working on accounts, checking our mailing list and property details, that kind of thing. It's a half-yearly job. We take turns at it. This was mine. Poor Matthew, I remember, was in Scotland.'
He turned the book round so that they could see the entry.
'So you were alone, Mr Cowley?'
'Yes.'
'You live by yourself as well, don't you?'
'You seem to know a lot about me,' said Cowley aggressively.
'We took closely at everyone connected with a murder victim,' said Dalziel placatingly. 'Sergeant, what's your point? We mustn't keep Mr Cowley from his customer.'
Cheeky sod! thought Pascoe.
'No point really, sir. I was just interested in Mr Cowley's whereabouts that week-end. I'm sure someone saw him
'Saw me? Of course someone saw me!' Cowley looked at Pascoe as if he were some rare and rather unpleasant animal. 'For a start I don't do the job by myself, you know. Miss Clayton and Miss Collingwood were here too doing their bit. Ask 'em! Superintendent, I don't understand your underling. If he'd wanted to know about this week-end or Monday afternoon, that would figure. But all that time ago…!'
'Don't worry, sir. We're checking that too,' said Dalziel, rising. 'No sign of your client yet? Sergeant, have a look.'
Solemnly, Pascoe peered into the outer office.
'No, sir. Empty.'
'Dear me. I hope we haven't chased him away. Well, thank you for your time, Mr Cowley. Sorry to have troubled you. If Mr Atkinson should get in touch again, please let us know. Good evening.'
Outside Dalziel looked assessingly at the sun's declension.
'You can buy me a drink,' he said finally.
'The Black Eagle, sir?'
'No. Somewhere where telephones don't ring. Round the corner here'll do.'
At this time of evening they were the only customers in the ugly little pub Dalziel had discovered. Instead of
