“Oh!” I said. “You’ve thought of him?”
“Why, naturally, sir, first thing. It didn’t need any anonymous letters to put me on his track.”
“Anonymous letters,” I said sharply. “Did you get one, then?”
“That’s nothing new, sir. We get a dozen a day, at least. Oh! yes, we were put wise to Archer. As though the police couldn’t look out for themselves! Archer’s been under suspicion from the first. The trouble of it is, he’s got an alibi. Not that it amounts to anything, but it’s awkward to get over.”
“What do you mean by its not amounting to anything?” I asked.
“Well, it appears he was with a couple of pals all the afternoon. Not, as I say, that that counts much. Men like Archer and his pals would swear to anything. There’s no believing a word they say. We know that. But the public doesn’t, and the Jury’s taken from the public, more’s the pity. They know nothing, and ten to one believe everything that’s said in the witness box, no matter who it is that says it. And of course Archer himself will swear till he’s black in the face that he didn’t do it.”
“Not so obliging as Mr. Redding,” I said with a smile.
“Not he,” said the inspector, making the remark as a plain statement of fact.
“It is natural, I suppose, to cling to life,” I mused.
“You’d be surprised if you knew the murderers that have got off through the soft-heartedness of the jury,” said the inspector gloomily.
“But do you really think that Archer did it?” I asked.
It has struck me as curious all along that Inspector Slack never seems to have any personal views of his own on the murder. The easiness or difficulty of getting a conviction are the only points that seem to appeal to him.
“I’d like to be a bit surer.” he admitted. “A fingerprint now, or a footprint, or seen in the vicinity about the time of the crime. Can’t risk arresting him without something of that kind. He’s been seen round Mr. Redding’s house once or twice, but he’d say that was to speak to his mother. A decent body, she is. No, on the whole. I’m for the lady. If I could only get definite proof of blackmail – but you can’t get definite proof of anything in this crime! It’s theory, theory, theory. It’s a sad pity that there’s not a single spinster lady living along your road, Mr. Clement. I bet she’d have seen something if there had been.”
His words reminded me of my calls, and I took leave of him. It was about the solitary instance when I had seen him in a genial mood.
My first call was on Miss Hartnell. She must have been watching for me from the window, for before I had time to ring she had opened the front door, and clasping my hand firmly in hers, had led me over the threshold.
“So good of you to come. In here. More private.”
We entered a microscopic room, about the size of a hencoop.
Miss Hartnell shut the door and with an air of deep secrecy waved me to a seat (there were only three). I perceived that she was enjoying herself.
“I’m never one to beat about the bush,” she said in her jolly voice, the latter slightly toned down to meet the requirements of the situation. “You know how things go the round in a village like this.”
“Unfortunately,” I said, “I do.”
“I agree with you. Nobody dislikes gossip more than I do. But there it is. I thought it my duty to tell the police inspector that I’d called on Mrs. Lestrange the afternoon of the murder and that she was out. I don’t expect to be thanked for doing my duty, I just do it. Ingratitude is what you meet with first and last in this life. Why, only yesterday that impudent Mrs. Baker -”
“Yes, yes,” I said, hoping to avert the usual tirade. “Very sad, very sad. But you were saying.”
“The lower classes don’t know who are their best friends,” said Miss Hartnell. “I always say a word in season when I’m visiting. Not that I’m ever thanked for it.”