The Inspector shook his head, but Benson helped himself and Craig gave him a light.
“Do you have far to go?” he asked conversationally.
Benson gazed dumbly at him and Craig explained: “In words of one syllable, where do you live?”
“Chorley Wood. Why do you ask?”
Craig looked amused.
“What are you worrying about?”
“I’m not worrying!” snapped Benson.
“Not worrying when your brother-in-law has been shot?” Craig reproached him. “I merely asked where you lived. Do you mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind. Though what business it is of yours exactly—”
The Inspector cut in grimly:
“Mr. Craig has quite a way of not minding his own business.”
“So it seems,” Benson said. He shot Craig a look from under his brows.
“And I thought I was being friendly,” remarked Craig imperturbably. “Where did you make your phone-call from?”
“Call-box on the corner of Warren Street.”
“It’s quite a bother getting through sometimes.”
“I had a bit of bother myself,” Benson admitted. He was thawing slightly.
“I noticed that call-box,” Craig said as if the other hadn’t spoken. “It’s got no light.”
“That’s right. Kids must have bust the bulb or pinched it or something. Lucky I’d got some matches. It took me about five minutes dialling Toll—used up half a box finding ‘T’ and ‘O’ and ‘L’. My wife heard the shot, too, as a matter of fact. She thought it was some car backfiring.”
“Must have been some shot!”
“It was a heavy calibre army revolver,” the Inspector put in. “Makes a noise like a cannon.”
Benson went on:
“I realized it was no car though, so I ran out. As I said, I got to the shop just in time to catch Ryan—luckily.”
“Very luckily.” Craig shook his head sadly. “I wouldn’t have thought it of Sammy.”
The Inspector said:
“Looks as if you misjudged your man.”
Craig didn’t answer at once, but drew at his cigarette. Then he asked quietly:
“Can I have a word with Sammy?”
The inspector nodded.
“If you think it worth your while.”
Craig disappeared into the back sitting room.
He found Sammy Ryan sitting on a hard chair and not feeling too happy about any of it, but he was pleased to see Craig.
“Glad you come,” he said. “You been wonderful, but wot’s the use of me saying anythink? I done time and that’s marked me.”
Craig eyed him through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He made no comment.
Sammy jerked his head morosely towards the shop.
“It’s an open-and-closed case to them. But I never done it, honest. Though I can say so till I’m blue in the face. I got no proof—nothink—but I swear I never done it.”
“Neither have they got sufficient proof—yet,” Craig told him.
Sammy Ryan turned towards him eagerly.
“You believe me, don’t you?” Then he slumped again. “But wot’s the use. They’ll cook up somethink, you wait and see if they don’t. They got enough to work on, and then they git a clever chap along in court and you see wot ’appens—”
He broke off expressively.
Craig said:
“What’s your story, Sammy?”
“Ain’t no use my telling ’em that, Mr. Craig.”
“I’m not asking you to tell them. I’m asking you to tell me.”
“All right, Mr. Craig, all right,” whined Sammy miserably. “It was like this, see. I had to go out for Mr. Robinson, up to the Euston Road. When I gits back, he’s in the shop getting ready to close up. Well, I was just going through the back when I hears this here gun go off. Terrific bang it makes,” added Sammy reminiscently. “Nearly scares the hide off me and for a moment I was all confused like. Then I rushes into the shop and sees the old man laid out on the floor, it didn’t half give me a turn, I can tell you. I kicks up against the gun and without thinking—honest, Mr. Craig, I didn’t know wot I was doing—I picks it up and before I knew wot was happening I dashes full tilt into Mr. Robinson’s brother-in-law, who was coming into the shop. He grabs ’old of me and ’ollers for the cops—”
Sammy broke off and brushed his hand across his face.
“About what time did this happen?”
“Must have been round about six. Like I said, the old man was getting ready to shut up shop.”
There was a silence for a moment while Craig eyed him bleakly. Then he observed shortly:
“Not much of a story you’ve got there is it?”
“You’re telling me,” the other blurted out bitterly. “But it’s the truth, Mr. Craig, every word of it, s’welp me if it isn’t. I never done it, I tell you, I never done it.” His voice trembled off into a long groan. “But I reckon I know when my goose is cooked.”
Craig looked at him speculatively for a moment, then he said:
“All right, Sammy. If that’s your story, you stick to it.”
Sammy nodded gloomily.
“I shall have to. Being the truth, there ain’t no other I can tell now. Wish there was.”
Craig smiled grimly and left him.
When he returned to the shop, Inspector Hooper greeted him somewhat heavily sympathetic.
“Pretty thin yarn, don’t you think, Craig?”
“Pretty thin, Inspector.”
The Inspector went on:
“Afraid he’s for it this time. Frankly, I’m sorry. He was doing well in this job here. And with him getting married and all that, I thought he really meant to settle down. Must be disappointing for you.”
Craig’s reply was stony.
“Could be.”
The Inspector was starting to say something, then he broke off. “What do you mean, ‘Could be’?” he growled.
Craig didn’t answer. Instead he turned to Benson.
“I imagine between you, you and your wife must have a pretty good idea what time the gun went off?”
Benson blinked at him and caught his sagging lower lip between his protruding teeth. He said slowly:
“I don’t know about my wife. Naturally, I didn’t wait to ask her, but I daresay the police can check it up anyway. For myself, I should say it was about six o’clock.”
Craig murmured:
“I had a feeling you’d say that.”
“What is this?”
Inspector Hooper sounded irritable.
Craig drew deeply at his cigarette and let the smoke trickle dreamily out in a blue ribbon to the ceiling before