But Hopkins had great faith in his power to seduce the human mind.
“Your name Tisdall, by any chance?” he asked casually, “finding” himself alongside the young man in the crowded procession to the door.
The man’s face hardened into instant enmity.
“Yes, it is,” he said aggressively.
“Not old Tom Tisdall’s nephew?”
The face cleared swiftly.
“Yes. Did you know Uncle Tom?”
“A little,” admitted Hopkins, no whit dismayed to find that there really was a Tom Tisdall.
“You seem to know about my giving up the Stannaway?”
“Yes, someone told me,” Hopkins said, wondering if the Stannaway was a house, or what? “What are you doing now?”
By the time they had reached the door, Hopkins had established himself. “Can I give you a lift somewhere? Come and have lunch with me?”
A pip! In half an hour he’d have a front-page story. And this was the baby they said was difficult! No, there was no doubt of it: he, James Brooke Hopkins, was the greatest newspaper man in the business.
“Sorry, Mr. Hopkins,” said Grant’s pleasant voice at his shoulder. “I don’t want to spoil your party, but Mr. Tisdall has an appointment with me.” And, since Tisdall betrayed his astonishment and Hopkins his instant putting two and two together, he added, “We’re hoping he can help us.”
“I don’t understand,” Tisdall was beginning. And Hopkins, seeing that Tisdall was unaware of Grant’s identity, rushed in with glad maliciousness.
“That is Scotland Yard,” he said. “Inspector Grant. Never had an unsolved crime to his name.”
“I hope you write my obituary,” Grant said.
“I hope I do!” the journalist said, with fervour.
And then they noticed Tisdall. His face was like parchment, dry and old and expressionless. Only the pulse beating hard at his temple suggested a living being. Journalist and detective stood looking in mutual astonishment at so unexpected a result of Hopkins’ announcement. And then, seeing the man’s knees beginning to sag, Grant took him hastily by the arm.
“Here! Come and sit down. My car is just here.”
He edged the apparently blind Tisdall through the dawdling, chattering crowd, and pushed him into the rear seat of a dark touring car.
“Westover,” he said to the chauffeur, and got in beside Tisdall.
As they went at snail’s pace towards the high-road, Grant saw Hopkins still standing where they had left him. That Jammy Hopkins should stay without moving for more than three consecutive minutes argued that he was being given furiously to think. From now on—the Inspector sighed—the camel-fly would be a blood-hound.
And the Inspector, too, had food for his wits. He had been called in the previous night by a worried County Constabulary who had no desire to make themselves ridiculous by making mountains out of molehills, but who found themselves unable to explain away satisfactorily one very small, very puzzling obstacle to their path. They had all viewed the obstacle, from the Chief Constable down to the sergeant who had taken charge on the beach, had been rude about each other’s theories, and had in the end agreed on only one thing: that they wanted to push the responsibility on to someone else’s shoulders. It was all very well to hang on to your own crime, and the kudos of a solution, when there was a crime. But to decide in cold blood to announce a crime, on the doubtful evidence of that common little object on the table; to risk, not the disgrace of failure, but the much worse slings of ridicule, was something they could not find it in their hearts to do. And so Grant had cancelled his seat at the Criterion and had journeyed down to Westover. He had inspected the stumbling block, listened with patience to their theories and with respect to the police surgeon’s story, and had gone to bed in the small hours with a great desire to interview Robert Tisdall. And now here was Tisdall, beside him, still speechless and half fainting because he had been confronted without warning by Scotland Yard. Yes, there was a case; no doubt of it. Well, there couldn’t be any questioning with Cork in the driving seat, so until they got back to Westover Tisdall might be left to recover. Grant took a flask from the car pocket and offered it to him. Tisdall took it shakily but made good use of it. Presently he apologised for his weakness.
“I don’t know what went wrong. This affair has been an awful shock to me. I haven’t been sleeping. Keep going over things in my mind. Or rather, my mind keeps doing it; I can’t stop it. And then, at the inquest it seemed—I say, is something not right? I mean, was it not a simple drowning? Why did they postpone the end of the inquest?”
“There are one or two things that the police find puzzling.”
“As what, for instance?”
“I think we won’t discuss it until we get to Westover.”
“Is anything I say to be used in evidence against me?” The smile was wry but the intention was good.
“You took the words out of my mouth,” the Inspector said lightly, and silence fell between them.
By the time they reached the Chief Constable’s room in the County Police offices, Tisdall was looking normal if a little worn. In fact, so normal did he look that when Grant said, “This is Mr. Tisdall,” the Chief Constable, who was a genial soul except when someone jumped in his pocket out hunting, almost shook hands with him, but recollected himself before any harm was done.
“Howdyudo. Harrump!” He cleared his throat to give himself time. Couldn’t do that, of course. My goodness, no. Fellow suspected of murder. Didn’t look it, no, upon his soul he didn’t. But there was no telling these days. The most charming people were—well, things he hadn’t known till lately existed. Very sad. But couldn’t shake hands, of course. No, definitely not. “Harrump! Fine morning! Bad for racing, of course. Going very hard. But good for the holiday makers. Mustn’t be selfish in our pleasures. You a racing man? Going to Goodwood? Oh, well, perhaps— No. Well, I expect you and—and our friend here—” somehow one didn’t want to rub in the fact of Grant’s inspectorship. Nice-looking chap. Well brought up, and all that—“would like to talk in peace. I’m going to lunch. The Ship,” he added, for Grant’s benefit, in case the Inspector wanted him. “Not that the food’s very good there, but it’s a self-respecting house. Not like these Marine things. Like to get steak and potatoes without going through sun lounges for them.” And the Chief Constable took himself out.
“A Freedy Lloyd part,” Tisdall said.
Grant looked up appreciatively from pulling forward a chair.
“You’re a theatre fan.”
“I was a fan of most things.”
Grant’s mind focused on the peculiarity of the phrase. “Why ‘was’?” he asked.
“Because I’m broke. You need money to be a fan.”
“You won’t forget that formula about ‘anything you say,’ will you?”
“No. Thanks. But it doesn’t make any difference. I can only tell you the truth. If you draw wrong deductions from it then that’s your fault, not mine.”
“So it’s I who am on trial. A nice point. I appreciate it. Well, try me out. I want to know how you were living in the same house with a woman whose name you didn’t know? You did tell the County Police that, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I expect it sounds incredible. Silly, too. But it’s