“Give me that whisky and I’ll tell you,” said Lestrade. “It’s been a long day, and that blackguard we’ve got locked up hasn’t said a blessed thing to make it any shorter for us.”
“I told you you should let me talk to him,” said Mr. Clemens. He led us into the parlor and waved us to seats, then opened the liquor cabinet, talking the whole time. “I’ll get more sense out of him in five minutes than your boys will all week, not that it’ll be anything much.”
“He’s a sly one, sure enough,” said Lestrade, taking the glass of whisky my employer filled for him. “He’s been behind bars more than once, or I don’t know the type. Maybe I will let you talk to him; he might open up to an old friend—or at least that’s what he claims you are. I take it you’re of a dissenting opinion on that item. Cheers.” He took a sip from his whisky and nodded appreciatively.
“I wouldn’t lend him train fare to Timbuktu, if it was a nickel for a one-way trip, and no returns allowed,” said Mr. Clemens, plopping himself down on the sofa.
“Aye, he’s the sort would be back the next day asking for more,” said Lestrade, with a chuckle. “Still, you seem friendly enough to that little wife of his. What were you doing at their place to begin with, if you weren’t his friend?”
“I told you that already,” said my employer. “My daughter wanted to hear the spooks talk, and my wife thought it was a good idea, and so Cabot and I had to go along to make sure neither of them got swindled. Mrs. McPhee may be prettier and sweeter than her husband, but she’s not much more honest.”
“Better not to have gone at all, then,” said Lestrade. Then his face turned more earnest, as he continued. “But you know, I’ve begun to think McPhee might not be our man. If he’d had aught to do with the killing, he’d have been working like a Trojan to convince us he was innocent. And he’s not—he just takes it for granted, like. It doesn’t occur to him that when all’s said and done, we’ll do anything but let him go. And until then, he knows how to spend his time in jail. He’s already got the other prisoners into card games.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Clemens. He took a sip of the whisky. “Meanwhile the killer’s had damn near two days to cover his tracks, or get clean away, if that’s what he wanted.”
“Not so!” Lestrade bristled, but then, evidently recalling whose liquor it was he was drinking, he calmed down. “This isn’t a common street killing, where some drunken ruffian stabs one of his fellows on the spur of the moment and takes to his heels. The whole look of it is different—there was planning went into this, or I’ll eat my hat.”
“That seems clear enough,” I agreed. I was starting to feel somewhat less put-upon, now that I’d had a chance to rest in a soft chair with a glass of something good to drink. “But have you considered that the murder might have been the work of a hired killer? Let’s say it was the doctor’s son who wanted to be rid of him . . .”
Mr. Clemens laughed. “We just tangled with the doctor’s son,” he explained when Lestrade looked puzzled. “He’s a rotten brat, and that’s about the best testimonial I can give him. He came after me with a stick, thinking I was one of your men, and Cabot had to knock him down and sit on him until he remembered his manners.”
“I see,” said Lestrade, looking at me. “Sergeant Collins questioned him this morning, and said his alibi looked good. Do you think he could have hired his father’s killer?”
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” said Mr. Clemens, practically at the same time. He looked at me, and I glared back at him.
“I can see there’s a difference of opinion there,” said the Scotland Yard inspector, grinning. “I’ll keep that in mind, too.” He leaned forward and said in a quieter voice, “Now, here’s a tip for you. Terry Mulligan is still missing—that’s the Irish knave that came to the door of the place after the murder and ran away when he found the police there. McPhee claims he doesn’t know where Mulligan lives, and maybe he’s telling the truth for once. Said he used to meet him at a pub not far from his flat, a place called The Painted Woman. Nobody there claimed to know him when one of my lads went in. Maybe you’ll have better luck. If you do, I’d appreciate hearing anything you find out.”
“Is Mulligan a suspect?” I asked. I remembered the man’s running away, but thought it a natural reaction. Anyone who associated with McPhee was likely to have good reason to avoid the police.
“Perhaps,” said Lestrade, waving a hand. “Or perhaps a witness—he may have known something he didn’t have a chance to tell McPhee, you know. We’ll have a better idea when we’ve questioned him.”
“Well, I don’t know what we’ll find out, but we’ll go ask, anyway,” said my employer. “Now, unless you’ve got something else important, why don’t we call in the ladies and let you ask your questions. It’s getting close to suppertime, and it’s chancy trying to get a good meal out of this cook when we sit down at the right time. I’d hate to see what happens when things get thrown off schedule.”
“Fine, call in the ladies,” said Lestrade. “I’ll tell my constable to come in and take notes.”
