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Updated: May 18, 2025
"Ax me another," growled Bates. "Who is spreading this rumor? Robinson?" "'E dussen't, sir. 'E looks fierce, but 'e'll 'old 'is tongue. T'super will see to that." "Someone is talking. That is quite certain." "There's a chap in the 'Are an' 'Ounds kem 'ere last night." "Ingerman?" "Ay, sir, that's the name. 'E's makin' a song of it, I hear." "Anybody else?" "Fred Elkin is gassin' about.
"You prefer that I should drag out a statement piecemeal rather than receive it en bloc?" "Put it that way, if you like." "I shall even enjoy it. To clear the ground, are you the Isidor G. Ingerman who exploited the A1 Mine in Abyssinia?" Ingerman's finger-tips whitened under a sudden pressure, but his voice remained calm. "An unfortunate episode," he said.
You were good enough to give me your friendship, so I spoke as openly as one dares when no charge has actually been laid against any particular person." "Ay," said Elkin, with whom sunshine seemed to disagree, because he looked miserably ill. "We know what you mean, Mr. Ingerman. If the police were half sharp they'd have nabbed their man before this ... Did you put any water in this gin, Tomlin?"
Elkin nudged Tomlin, and sniggered at the rest of his colleagues, as much as to say: "What did I tell you? The cheek of him!" Elkin, by the way, looked ill. When his interest flagged for an instant his haggard aspect became more noticeable. Ingerman was there, of course. Furneaux sat beside Mr. Fowler. A stranger, whom Grant did not recognize, proved to be the County Chief Constable.
They were married at a London registrar's office on a given date, six years ago. His wife acted under her maiden name. There was no family. The court was well lighted by four long windows in the eastern wall, which each witness faced, so Grant was free to study his avowed enemy at leisure. He thought he made out a crafty underlook in Ingerman which he had failed to detect the previous night.
Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a hobby of enlightening strangers as to your right place in society." "I must interview Elkin." "Not worth while, my boy. Ingerman is the crafty one. I thought I might be doing you more harm than good, or I would have given him a thick ear this afternoon ... Oh, by the way, what time is it?" "Seven o'clock."
Elkin was about twenty-five years of age, Siddle looked younger than his probable thirty-five years, while the others were on the stout and prosperous line of fifty. They were discussing the murder, of course, when Ingerman entered, and ordered a whiskey and soda. Instantly there was dead silence. Looks and furtive winks were exchanged. There had been talk of a detective being employed.
"We read Siddle's visit aright, it would appear," said Winter quietly. "Yes. That was his mission, put in a nutshell." "And what did you say?" "I told him that, after Wednesday, I would ask Doris Martin to marry me, which is the best answer I can give him and all the world." "Why 'after Wednesday'?" "Because I shall know then the full extent of the annoyance which Ingerman can inflict."
You look as though you'd run a mile," commented Elkin. "This murder has kept me busy," growled the other, frankly mopping his forehead. "Ay, that's so. And it isn't done with yet, by a long way. Pity you weren't in the Hare and Hounds last night. You'd have heard something. There's a chap staying there, name of Ingerman " "I've met him. The dead woman's husband."
Now, Tomlin, to whom the comings and goings of all and sundry formed the staple of the day's gossip, had seen the detective go out, but could "take his sollum davy" that the queer little man had not returned. He, too, had watched Ingerman going to Siddle's. Ten minutes later Elkin came down the hill, and headed for the same rendezvous. Five minutes more, and Hobbs, the butcher, joined the others.
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