“So that gives us another person who had a grudge against the colonel.”
“You don’t seriously suspect the man—what’s his name, by the way?”
“His name’s Reeves, and I don’t say I do suspect him. What I say is, you never know. I don’t like that soapy, oily manner of his.”
I wonder what Reeves would say of Inspector Slack’s manner.
“I’m going to question the chauffeur now.”
“Perhaps, then,” I said, “you’ll give me a lift in your car. I want a short interview with Mrs. Protheroe.”
“What about?”
“The funeral arrangements.”
“Oh!” Inspector Slack was slightly taken aback. “The inquest’s tomorrow, Saturday.”
“Just so. The funeral will probably be arranged for Tuesday.”
Inspector Slack seemed to be a little ashamed of himself for his brusqueness. He held out an olive branch in the shape of an invitation to be present at the interview with the chauffeur, Manning.
Manning was a nice lad, not more than twenty-five or six years of age. He was inclined to be awed by the inspector.
“Now, then, my lad,” said Slack, “I want a little information from you.”
“Yes, sir,” stammered the chauffeur. “Certainly, sir.”
If he had committed the murder himself he could not have been more alarmed.
“You took your master to the village yesterday?”