CHAPTER V

      WATSON PLAYS FOR SAFETY

      ‘SEEMS impossible that a murder could have taken place in there before hundreds of people until you’ve seen the place,’ said Amos.

      ‘It seems less improbable to you now?’

      ‘Much. I sat in that pew working out a few ways in which it could be done. But most of my schemes lacked finesse.’ Petrie wagged his head to indicate that deficiency in finesse was as deplorable as the murder itself. Watson again felt confident. There was nothing to fear about this strange little person. Watson thought it over and decided to take a gambler’s throw and clear the atmosphere.

      ‘Among these theories you’ve been working out, did you find one that fitted me?’

      Petrie produced his handkerchief and his voice dropped a tone:

      ‘I’ve got a separate theory for you—one all for yourself.’

      Eric repressed the shiver that coursed down his spine and took another plunge:

      ‘Thinking, of course, of the claret and soda?’

      Amos nodded brightly, almost as though seized by sudden delight.

      ‘I don’t want to ask you about that now. But I don’t mind telling you that one man felt inclined to arrest you last night.’

      ‘Meaning Inspector Ripple?’

      ‘Yes. You know him?’

      ‘His fame reached me last night,’ said Watson nastily. ‘He was pictured to me as a person lacking in your favourite finesse.’

      ‘Dear me! Poor Ripple would be mortified to hear that. I’ve blamed him at times for many things—but never for that. It’s too bad.’

      ‘The man deserves all that’s coming to him if he thinks I’d poison a friend with six hundred people looking on.’

      ‘It would be gauche,’ conceded Amos. ‘Very gauche.’

      ‘Why don’t you want to question me about the claret and soda?’

      ‘My friend, when I go fishing I study the conditions of the stream before I throw in my line. I don’t know enough about this case yet.’

      Petrie was staring over Watson’s shoulder. The younger man grew restive, turned to discover that the solicitor was looking at a blank wall and bit his lips as he considered the position. Finally, he commenced to speak with a burst of words:

      ‘Look here, I’m in rather a mess. I’m not standing in too good a spot. It might be said that things look suspicious as far as I’m concerned. But I’m prepared to put myself in your hands. You can make any search you like and I’ll answer any questions you like. I can’t be fairer or more open than that, can I?’

      ‘Perhaps you can’t. It might be an advantage.’

      ‘An advantage to me?’

      ‘Possibly. Who can say? Ever do any fishing yourself?’

      ‘Fishing? What on earth has that got to do with it?’

      ‘Nothing at all,’ replied the little man easily. ‘You’ve missed a lot, my friend.’ He looked round the room as though taking his first glance. Then he pointed to the claret bottle.

      ‘Is that the bottle from which Reardon’s last drink was taken?’

      ‘That’s the one, and I poured out the drink personally.’

      ‘How interesting. For myself I prefer beer. But it takes all sorts to make a world, and I can’t blame anyone for liking claret. I don’t think many people would like to drink out of this bottle.’

      ‘Surely you don’t think the strophantin was in the claret?’

      ‘I never could guess. Pity I’ve lost my palate for wine.’ Petrie removed the cork and sniffed the contents of the bottle daintily. He had a wholesome respect for strophantin fumes—if any were present. Watson eyed him suspiciously, waiting for some change of expression on the wrinkled face. The solicitor smiled.

      ‘Can you lend me some sort of a case so that I can take this bottle away? The stuff will have to be analysed.’

      Watson produced a small attaché case and the bottle was stowed away.

      ‘Do you live very far from here, Mr Watson? By the way, I didn’t mention before that my name is Amos Petrie. Not that the name matters but I suppose there is some sort of etiquette even about murder cases. Now that we know each other—where do you live?’

      ‘I have a flat in St Margaret’s Mansions. I live at the top.’

      ‘Like an eagle in his eyrie, eh? Aren’t the Mansions in Millbank?’

      ‘That’s right. Only round the corner, so to speak.’

      ‘I’d like to amble round and peep about the place for a while.’

      ‘I told you that I am willing for any search to be made.’

      ‘Splendid. We’ll start now. I can collect your friend Ripple on the way. Maybe you’ll like him more now that the raw edges of a first meeting have worn away. Hand me Reardon’s papers and we’ll walk.’

      Watson felt inclined to protest against the sudden move. Petrie stood near the door, waiting for him. Eric shrugged his shoulders, collected the papers, tucked them into two despatch cases, and handed them over. They met Inspector Ripple in the courtyard. He was talking to a sergeant. Amos handed the case containing the claret bottle to the sergeant, instructing him that the contents were to be sent for immediate analysis. The documents were handed over to be left in Ripple’s room. Then the three men walked to Millbank.

      They rose in the lift to the fifth floor and were admitted to the flat by a manservant. Ripple took a quick look round, and phoned to the Yard for another man to assist in the search. Amos sat down in a small lounge and waited for the scrutiny of the flat to begin. He was as placid as a removal contractor. Watson found it difficult to settle down and over a whisky and soda he recounted to Amos all that happened on the previous day from the time he entered the House until he left it. He was still adding details to the story when Ripple and his assistant commenced the search. Half an hour later Ripple returned to the lounge, holding in his hand a small bundle of papers.

      ‘These papers and oddments seem to be the only things of any value,’ he announced.

      ‘And