“Mrs. McPhee, I can assure you that the Metropolitan Police Authority does not take cold-blooded murder lightly,” said Lestrade. He removed his coat and draped it over a chair, putting his hat on the seat. “There may be a killer walking the streets, even as we speak. All your husband has to do is answer our questions. If he’s done nothing against English law, he has nothing to fear from us. Meanwhile, you might think about this: if you can tell us something that helps us catch the murderer, then your man will be back with you that much the sooner.”
“I’ve heard that story before,” said Martha, defiance in her eyes. “I know better that to trust a policeman holding out empty promises.”
“Do you really?” asked Lestrade. “And have you and Mr. McPhee been in trouble with the police often before?”
Before Martha could open her mouth to answer, Mr. Clemens stood up and raised his hand. “Hold on now, both of you. This little squabble is about as helpful as a dogfight in a canoe. We’re all aiming for the same thing—finding out who killed the doctor.”
“You’re assuming the lady’s husband isn’t the murderer himself, or an accomplice,” said Sergeant Coleman, looking up from the floor over by the table, where he had begun an inch-by-inch search.
Now it was Lestrade who raised his hand. “Wait a while, Coleman,” he said. “Mr. Twain, do I understand you to say that you are trying to find the murderer yourself? I fear you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”
“Don’t say that before you know how big my mouth is,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ve done this kind of thing before, and had my share of luck at it.”
Lestrade peered intently at my employer before answering. “I’ve had dealings before with private persons who fancied they were better than we are at catching criminals. From time to time, one of them stumbles across a bit of evidence before the police discover it, and helps us solve the case. But take my word for it, Mr. Twain, these things are best left to the professionals. I’ve been at Scotland Yard a dog’s age and longer. I’ve seen everything there is to see. There’s no substitute for practical experience, no matter how clever a fellow thinks he is.”
“Well, I wouldn’t argue with that,” said Mr. Clemens. “And being a foreigner, of course I can’t know your territory as well as you do.”
“Yes, exactly,” said Lestrade, nodding.
“Still, Ed McPhee and I have known each other a long time,” my employer continued. “I have a pretty good idea what he’d do and what he wouldn’t, and I don’t believe he’s got murder in his heart. I don’t think he’d cover up a murder, either—not unless the other fellow had something mighty serious to hold over his head in exchange for his silence, that is. And I can’t see how that could apply here.”
“If you’d seen as many murders as I have, you wouldn’t be surprised by anything,” Lestrade said. “A man everybody knows and trusts can suddenly snap—because of money, because of a woman, because of a hundred things, Lord knows. This McPhee chap may have been under pressures you can’t imagine.”
“You’re talking to a man who makes up stories for a living,” said Mr. Clemens. “If I can’t imagine it, it ain’t worth the trouble. But never mind that; there’s fresher fish to fry. I’m going to do what I can to figure out who killed Dr. Parkhurst last night. I don’t have any axes to grind; if it turns out McPhee did it, you can hang him without me raising a finger—sorry, Miss Martha, but that’s all I can promise you.”
“No more than any honest man would undertake,” said Lestrade, nodding. “But you’re leading up to something, I can tell. What’s your point, Mr. Twain?”
“I think McPhee may tell his ‘old buddy Sam’ things he wouldn’t tell you,” said my employer. “How about letting me in to talk to him—maybe giving him your promise that if you’re happy with what he says to me, he can talk to his wife? You’ll catch more flies with molasses than with vinegar, you know.”
Lestrade gave him a searching look, then said, “Perhaps we can do business, then. But first I have a few questions for you three. If I’m satisfied with your answers, then we can consider letting you talk to McPhee. Do we have a bargain?”
“Well, I don’t see how I’ve got anything to lose by it,” said Mr. Clemens. He paused and looked at me, then at Martha McPhee. “Of course, I’m only talking for myself. But if these two young folks are agreeable, I think we’ve got a deal.”
“I can’t turn down any plan that lets me speak to my husband,” said Martha. I added my agreement, and Lestrade took out a notebook of his own. Mr. Clemens reclaimed his chair, and we awaited the detective’s questions.
11
Lestrade rubbed his chin, thinking, then said, “Let’s begin with the young lady. When did you first meet the deceased?”
“Last night,” said Martha. “No more than twenty minutes before our sitting commenced.”
Lestrade squinted when he heard that. “Really! And if you didn’t know the gentleman before that, how did he happen to be here last night?”
“His wife and I had met at a spiritualist-society meeting,” said Martha. “She asked him to come. And to be quite frank with you, I had the distinct impression that he was there only to escort her
