Suddenly Melchett strode across to the sleeping man with a sharp exclamation. He seized him by the shoulder and shook him, at first gently, then with increasing violence.
“He’s not asleep! He’s drugged! What’s the meaning of this?”
His eye went to the empty cachet box. He picked it up.
“Has he—”
“I think so,” I said. “He showed me these the other day. Told me he’d been warned against an overdose. It’s his way out, poor chap. Perhaps the best way. It’s not for us to judge him.”
But Melchett was Chief Constable of the County before anything else. The arguments that appealed to me had no weight with him. He had caught a murderer and he wanted his murderer hanged.
In one second he was at the telephone, jerking the receiver up and down impatiently until he got a reply. He asked for Haydock’s number. Then there was a further pause during which he stood, his ear to the telephone and his eyes on the limp figure in the chair.
“Hullo—hullo—hullo—is that Dr. Haydock’s? Will the doctor come round at once to High Street? Mr. Hawes’. It’s urgent … what’s that? … Well, what number is it then? … Oh, sorry.”
He rang off, fuming.
“Wrong number, wrong number—always wrong numbers! And a man’s life hanging on it. Hullo —you gave me the wrong number. … Yes—don’t waste time—give me three nine— nine , not five.”
Another period of impatience—shorter this time.