part of it weren't so plausible, and if it didn't account for several queer things, you wouldn't give it a minute's thought. I don't believe he could have done it. Besides, that man,' Bennett heard himself talking loudly and foolishly, 'is drunk enough to say anything. Didn't you hear all the wild statements he made?'
'Oh, ah. Yes. What statements did you refer to?' 'Well, for instance, about Bohun's niece trying to kill
Marcia Tait by throwing her downstairs..:'
Suddenly he saw that he had fallen into a very bland, very easy trap. Masters said affably: 'Yes, indeed. I shall want to hear all about that. I talked to Mr. Willard and Mr. Bohun both, and yet neither one of them made any mention of an attempt to kill Miss Tait. Very rummy. Somebody tried to throw her downstairs, eh?'
'Look here, let's go and get some breakfast. I don't know anything about that; you'll have to ask them again. Besides — you don't want second-hand information. And I'm no stool-pigeon.'
'Stool-P Masters had been inspecting the supine and flabby figure on the couch, whose jaws moved like a bellows with its wheezing breath. Masters' big laughter boomed. 'Stool-pigeon, yes. You mean a copper's nark? Why, no. But I want any kind of information; d'ye see? Any kind. Eh, Potter? This niece of Mr. Bohun's is young, good-looking, I take it? And Mr. Rainger made another interesting statement: about Miss Tait being married. We shall have to check that. I say, I wonder how Mr. Rainger got so dirty? I mean in a literal sense this time. Look at him.'
He drew back the edge of the dressing-gown. There were powdery streaks of a dead blackish color down the front of the white shirt, as though dirt had been sifted on him; the shoulders were more grimy and a thicker black; and, as Masters lifted him a little, the arm of the shirt showed in the same condition. And, as he rolled him over like a dummy, they saw that there were also stains on the back of the shirt.
'Hands new-washed; shiny-washed. Look at them. H'm. Never mind, but I also wonder what he meant by saying he had an alibi. I suppose we ought to have him taken upstairs, and yet I think I shall just leave him there. Well, Potter? You said you'd done some trapping, and knew about tracks in the snow? Do you think Mr. Bohun could have worked that little trick?'
Potter ruminated, uneasily. ''Ere!' he said with irrelevance but determination, and stared up. 'I'll tell you what it is. I don't want this case. You said you were my superior officer, and so you are. Well, I'm going to telephone the Yard, official and all, and say we need help. Bloody little I'm going to mess about with it. There.'
'That means you don't think he could have done it. Eh?'
'I dunno. That's what beats me. But,' said the inspector, rising and slapping shut his notebook, 'I'm going out to look at those tracks and see. There might be something.'
Masters said he had some instructions for him. Masters accompanied him to the door, speaking in a low voice, and Potter uttered a pleased snort. His expression was one of heavy craftiness as he went out. Then Masters beckoned to Bennett, and spoke encouragingly of breakfast.
The big raftered dining-hall was at the rear of the house, its windows looking down over the lawns towards the avenue of evergreens and the pavilion. Sprigs of holly were fastened to the chandelier, and round a darkisn portrait over the mantelpiece. It was a sort of shock to see their gaiety; the gaiety of the big fire and the gleaming pewter dish-covers on the sideboard. At the table, leaning back in his chair, staring dull-faced and incurious at the ceiling, sat John Bohun. A cigarette drooped from his lips, and he had a convalescent's pallor. Across from him, industriously at work on bacon and eggs, sat a very prim fastidious little man who rose in haste as the newcomers entered.
'I beg your pardon,' the little man said, coming across in his nervous little strut. 'You are…' A hazy expression was in his eyes, and he still dabbled at his mouth with a napkin. He had a bony face dominated by his very large hooked nose, and a high domed skull with gray hair brushed flat across it. His whole expression-with the wrinkles, the fidgety mouth, and the pale gray eyes in which the small pin-point pupils were dead black-was one of vagueness mixed with swift moods which might be of good-humor or pettishness. He was very fastidiously dressed in black, with a quiet donnish primness, and his air was that of someone wandering past shelves in a library.'. you are — how extraordinarily stupid of me! I keep forgetting. You will be my guest, and you will be the inspector of police.' After a limp handshake, he hustled them towards the table. 'Did I introduce myself? I am Maurice Bohun. This is my brother John. You have already met him, have you not? Of course. Good God, what a dreadful business all this is! I only learned of it half an hour ago, you understand. But I informed John that the best way to keep up his strength in assisting justice was, in brief, to eat. You will take breakfast with us? Excellent. Thompson! More-ah-comestibles. '
As this almost invisible genie moved out from the sideboard, Maurice Bohun sat down. Bennett noticed that he limped slightly, and that a stick with a large gold knob was propped against his chair. This fussy little man to be the author of a bawdy robust comedy? Masters studied the two brothers; especially John, who had not moved from sitting back inertly with his hands in his pockets.
'I've got to warn you, sir,' announced Masters, in his voice that always seemed to dispel tense atmospheres, 'that you take me in at your own risk. I'm not officially connected with this case, although Inspector Potter's a relative of mine. So that only makes me a sort of guest at your pleasure. So if you don't mind sitting down to table with a copper; eh? Just so. An! Yes, the kippers, if you please.'
John Bohun lowered his head.
'I say, inspector, you may omit the urbanity. Have you found out anything since you talked to Willard and me?'
'I'm afraid not, sir. Matter of fact, I've been talking to a gentleman named Rainger,' Masters answered, with his mouth full.
'Your esteemed friend, Maurice,' said John, turning his head. 'The one who's going to make you a technical adviser on the films…'
Maurice put down his knife and fork gently. He peered across the table and said, 'Why not?' in a voice of such clear common-sense that Bennett turned to look at him. Then Maurice smiled vaguely and went on eating.
'I'm afraid — said Masters, and seemed to hesitate. His big grin showed behind a loaded fork. 'Mr. Rainger's a very interesting gentleman, and I admire his work, but I'm afraid he's been drinking this morning. Eli? Just so. That, and making wild accusations he may not be able to support. Can't support.'
'Accusations?' John Bohun asked sharply.
'Um. Of murder.' Masters was deprecating. 'Point of fact, he accused you. Lot of such rubbish. Ah! Real cream!'
John got up from his chair.
'He's been accusing me, has he? What's the swine been saying?'
'Now, now, sir, don't let it bother you. Everything's easily proved, isn't it?. But I wanted to talk to you, sir,' he added, turning to Maurice as though he had dismissed the subject, 'about this Mr. Rainger. He said you two had been together most of last evening; and, since he'd drunk himself a bit over the mark, I was curious as to how many other-um-hallucinations he might have got.'
Maurice pushed back his plate. and meticulously folded his napkin. Then he folded his hands. Against the gray light his big forehead, unwieldy for the frail body, threw into shadow those curious pale-gray eyes with the tiny black pupils. He looked muddled and mildly deprecating.
'An, yes,' he said. 'Er-where was I? Let me see. You ah wish me to satisfy you that I did not commit this murder.'
'Sir?'
'I was, of course, ah, answering the spirit of your question rather than the precise words. ' He was apologetic, as though there were nothing at all odd in this, and took the whole thing for granted. 'So Mr. Rainger has been drinking? I do not approve of drinking, because the world has a tendency to use alcohol as a drug against tedium. It is not that I disapprove of a drug against tedium, but I prefer that the drug against tedium should be purely intellectual. Do you follow me, sir?. I-ah-perceive that you do not. I was referring to a study of the past.'
Masters nodded his big head, with a show of deep interest.
'Ah,' he agreed wisely. 'Reading history, sir. Quite. Very instructive. I'm fond of it myself.'
'Surely,' said Maurice Bohun, 'that is-ah-not quite what you mean, sir?' A faint crease ruffled his forehead. 'Let me see. You mean that you once read a chapter of Macaulay or Froude, and were pleased with it and yourself when you discovered it to be a little less dull than you had anticipated. You were not inclined to read further, but at least you felt that your interest in history had been permanently aroused… But I really meant something deeper
