morning.” He reflected wrathfully for a few minutes. “She’s a stupid old fool, anyway. Can’t remember when she saw the pistol last. It might have been there on the morning of the crime, or it might not. ‘She couldn’t say, she’s sure.’ They’re all alike!
“Just as a matter of form, I went round and saw Dr. Stone,” he went on. “I must say he was pleasant as could be about it. He and Miss Cram went up to that mound—or barrow—or whatever you call it, about half-past two yesterday, and stayed there all the afternoon. Dr. Stone came back alone, and she came later. He says he didn’t hear any shot, but admits he’s absentminded. But it all bears out what we think.”
“Only,” I said, “you haven’t caught the murderer.”
“H’m,” said the inspector. “It was a woman’s voice you heard through the telephone. It was in all probability a woman’s voice Mrs. Price Ridley heard. If only that shot hadn’t come hard on the close of the telephone call—well, I’d know where to look.”
“Where?”
“Ah! That’s just what it’s best not to say, sir.”
Unblushingly, I suggested a glass of old port. I have some very fine old vintage port. Eleven o’clock in the morning is not the usual time for drinking port, but I did not think that mattered with Inspector Slack. It was, of course, cruel abuse of the vintage port, but one must not be squeamish about such things.
When Inspector Slack had polished off the second glass, he began to unbend and become genial. Such is the effect of that particular port.
“I don’t suppose it matters with you, sir,” he said. “You’ll keep it to yourself? No letting it get round the parish.”
I reassured him.