doing on the afternoon and evening of – what was the date?'
'Friday, 20th December.'
'Friday, 20th December. I expect you will have some record.'
'Oh, yes.' Miss Ellis left the room, returned with an office memorandum calendar and turned the pages.
'You were in the office in the morning of 20th December. You had a conference with Mr. Goldie about the Cromartie merger, you lunched with Lord Forthville at the Berkeley –'
'Ah, it was that day, yes.'
'You returned to the office at about 3 o'clock and dictated half a dozen letters. You then left to attend Sotheby's sale rooms where you were interested in some rare manuscripts which were coming up for sale that day. You did not return to the office again, but I have a note to remind you that you were attending the Catering Club dinner that evening.' She looked up interrogatively.
'Thank you, Miss Ellis.'
Miss Ellis glided from the room.
'That is all quite clear in my mind,' said Harold. 'I went to Sotheby's that afternoon but the items I wanted there went for far too high a price. I had tea in a small place in Jermyn Street – Russells, I think, it is called. I dropped into a News Theatre for about half an hour or so, then went home – I live at 43 Cardigan Gardens . The Catering Club dinner took place at seven-thirty at Caterers' Hall, and after it I returned home to bed. I think that should answer your questions.'
'That's all very clear, Mr. Crackenthorpe. What time was it when you returned home to dress?'
'I don't think I can remember exactly. Soon after six, I should think.'
'And after the dinner?'
'It was, I think, half-past eleven when I got home.'
'Did your manservant let you in? Or perhaps Lady Alice Crackenthorpe –'
'My wife. Lady Alice, is abroad in the South of France and has been since early in December. I let myself in with my latch key.'
'So there is no one who can vouch for your returning home when you say you did?'
Harold gave him a cold stare.
'I dare say the servants heard me come in. I have a man and wife. But, really, Inspector –'
'Please, Mr. Crackenthorpe, I know these kind of questions are annoying, but I have nearly finished. Do you own a car?'
'Yes, a Humber Hawk.'
'You drive it yourself?'
'Yes. I don't use it much except at weekends. Driving in London is quite impossible nowadays.'
'I presume you use it when you go down to see your father and sister at Brackhampton?'
'Not unless I am going to stay there for some length of time. If I just go down for the night – as, for instance, to the inquest the other day – I always go by train. There is an excellent train service and it is far quicker than going by car. The car my sister hires meets me at the station.'
'Where do you keep your car?'
'I rent a garage in the Mews behind Cardigan Gardens . Any more questions?'
'I think that's all for now,' said Inspector Craddock, smiling and rising.
'I'm very sorry for having to bother you.'
When they were outside. Sergeant Wetherall, a man who lived in a state of dark suspicion of all and sundry, remarked meaningly:
'He didn't like those questions – didn't like them at all. Put out, he was.'
'If you have not committed a murder, it naturally annoys you if it seems someone thinks that you have,' said Inspector Craddock mildly. 'It would particularly annoy an ultra respectable man like Harold Crackenthorpe. There's nothing in that. What we've got to find out now is if anyone actually saw Harold Crackenthorpe at the sale that afternoon, and the same applies to the teashop place. He could easily have travelled by the 4:33, pushed the woman out of the train and caught a train back to London in time to appear at the dinner. In the same way he could have driven his car down that night, moved the body to the sarcophagus and driven back again. Make inquiries in the Mews.'
'Yes, sir. Do you think that's what he did do?'
'How do I know?' asked Inspector Craddock. 'He's a tall dark man. He could have been on that train and he's got a connection with Rutherford Hall. He's a possible suspect in this case. Now for Brother Alfred.'
II
Alfred Crackenthorpe had a flat in West Hampstead , in a big modern building of slightly jerry-built type with a large courtyard in which the owners of flats parked their cars with a certain lack of consideration for others.
The flat was of the modern built-in type, evidently rented furnished. It had a long plywood table that let down from the wall, a divan bed, and various chairs of improbable proportions.
Alfred Crackenthorpe met them with engaging friendliness but was, the inspector thought, nervous.
'I'm intrigued,' he said. 'Can I offer you a drink, Inspector Craddock?' He held up various bottles invitingly.
'No, thank you, Mr. Crackenthorpe.'
'As bad as that?' He laughed at his own little joke, then asked what it was all about.
Inspector Craddock said his little piece.
'What was I doing on the afternoon and evening of 20th December. How should I know? Why, that's – what – over three weeks ago.'
'Your brother Harold has been able to tell us very exactly.'
'Brother Harold, perhaps. Not Brother Alfred.' He added with a touch of something – envious malice possibly: 'Harold is the successful member of the family – busy, useful, fully employed – a time for everything, and everything at that time. Even if he were to commit a – murder, shall we say? – it would be carefully timed and exact.'
'Any particular reason for using that example?'
'Oh, no. It just came into my mind – as a supreme absurdity.'
'Now about yourself.'
Alfred spread out his hands.
'It's as I tell you – I've no memory for times or places. If you were to say Christmas Day now – then I should be able to answer you – there's a peg to hang it on. I know where I was Christmas Day. We spend that with my father at Brackhampton. I really don't know why. He grumbles at the expense of having us – and would grumble that we never came near him if we didn't come. We really do it to please my sister.'
'And you did it this year?'
'Yes.'
'But unfortunately your father was taken ill, was he not?'
Craddock was pursuing a sideline deliberately, led by the kind of instinct that often came to him in his profession.
'He was taken ill. Living like a sparrow in the glorious cause of economy, sudden full eating and drinking had its effect.'
'That was all it was, was it?'
'Of course. What else?'
'I gathered that his doctor was – worried.'
'Oh, that old fool Quimper ,' Alfred spoke quickly and scornfully. 'It's no use listening to him, Inspector. He's an alarmist of the worst kind.'
'Indeed? He seemed a rather sensible kind of man to me.'
'He's a complete fool. Father's not really an invalid, there's nothing wrong with his heart, but he takes in
