“I don’t see what good he can be doing himself by holding back.”
“Precisely. I don’t want to injure the fellow, but I must get at the truth. I’m writing tonight for a warrant; not because I think he’s the guilty man but because we must get his evidence somehow, and I think a taste of prison detention might make him speak out. But of course it’s bad luck on the fellow, because a record like that, however much he is cleared, is bound to count against him when he looks out for a new job. It’s possible that he’s shielding Mottram’s reputation, or it’s possible that he’s afraid of coming under suspicion himself, or it’s possible that he’s simply lost his head, and, having no one to consult, can’t make up his mind what to do. But he’s cutting his own throat; there’s no doubt about that. I can’t think he’s really guilty, or why hasn’t he skipped? For all we could do, he could be in Vienna in a couple of days, and we none the wiser. Yet he stays on, and stays on as if there was some end to be gained by it.”
“But if he went off you could arrest him on suspicion, couldn’t you?”
“Could I? Hardly on what I know at present. I’m looking forward, you see, to Simmonds’s evidence when he’s arrested. I know that type, anæmic, nervous; once he’s arrested, with any luck, we can make him tell us the whole story; and then, if Brinkman really has been up to anything, it will be too late for him to get clear. But, as I say, I don’t believe Brinkman is a wrong ’un. If only he’d have the sense to confide in me—or in you, if he’s afraid of the police. … Well, I wanted to tell you all this, so that you’ll know where you are in dealing with Simmonds. Mrs. Bredon told me you were hoping to get a look at him today.”
“That’s the idea. To tell the truth, I think I’d better be starting now, because it’s easier to have a private interview with him if I go into the shop before the rush hour begins. Not that the rush hour at Chilthorpe is likely to be very formidable, but I don’t want to have our tête-à-tête interrupted by old ladies matching ribbons.”
Bredon strolled off. Leyland stayed where he was till he guessed the coast would be clear, and then went cautiously round to the back of the building. He found what he had expected, and hoped for. The cigarette, which they had left the night before in the place where it lay, had by now been carefully removed.
When Bredon reached the shop he found that Fortune was smiling on him. There seemed to be only one attendant about besides Simmonds himself, and this was a freckled, sandy-haired youth who was cleaning the front windows with every appearance of deliberation. Nor were there any rival shoppers so early on a Chilthorpe morning. Mr. Simmonds approached the handkerchief question with the air of being just the right man to come to. Other things, you felt, were to be bought in this shop: teethers, for example, and walking-sticks, and liquorice, and so on. But when you came to handkerchiefs, there you had found a specialist, a man who had handled handkerchiefs these fifteen years past. Something stylish, perhaps, was required? This with a glance at the customer, as if to size him up and recognise the man of taste. “The plain ones? Just plain white, you mean, sir? Well, it’s a curious thing, but I’m not certain I can lay my hand on one of them. You see, there’s more demand for the coloured ones, a bit of edging, anyhow. And, you see, we haven’t got in our new stock yet.” (They never have got in their new stock yet at Simmonds’s.) “Three weeks ago I could have done you a very good line in the plain ones, but I’m rather afraid we’re right out. I’ll just see.”
This was followed by an avalanche of drawers, containing handkerchiefs of every conceivable variety that was not plain. A violent horseshoe pattern that ran through all the gamut of the colours; a kind of willow pattern; a humorous series featuring film stars; striped edges, spotted edges, check edges—but no plain. From time to time Mr. Simmonds would draw attention to the merits of the exhibits, as if it were just his luck that his customer should be a man so unadventurous in taste. “Now, that’s a very good number; you couldn’t get a better line than that, not if it was a coloured handkerchief you were wanting. … No, no, sir, no trouble at all; I daresay perhaps I may be able to lay my hand on the article you require. … You don’t fancy those, now? Those come very cheap because they’re bankrupt stock. Just you feel that, sir, and see what a lot of wear there is in it! … Yes, that’s right, they’re a little on the gay side, sir, but we don’t get any real demand, not for the plain ones; people don’t seem to fancy them nowadays. Mind you, if you’ll be staying on here for a day or two, I could get you some; we shall be sending into Pullford the day after tomorrow. But at the moment we seem to be right out of them. … Oh, you’ll take the
