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What the blazes has Cornhill to do with the murder at The Hollies?" Ingerman appreciated the value of that concluding phrase. Elkin had used it once before in Siddle's shop, and was quietly reproved by the chemist for his outspokenness. Ingerman, however, did not inform the company that his office lay in an alley off Cornhill. He elected to rub in Elkin's words. "Mr.
Hobbs shook his head, and gazed at Elkin as though the latter was a refractory bullock. "Siddle's a fair-minded chap," he said. "He can't stand 'earin' any of us 'angin' a man without a fair trial." Ingerman had marked the chemist for more subtle treatment when an opportunity arose, or could be made. At present, he was not sorry such a restraining influence was removed.
What have you been doing to yourself, Mr. Elkin? You look peeky to-day." "Too much whiskey and tobacco. I'll call at Siddle's for a 'pick-me-up. Am I wanted for the jury?" "Yes. I left a notice at your place last evening." "I didn't get it." "Been away?" "No. Fact is, I went home late, and didn't bother about letters this morning. What time is the inquest?"
Those few inconsequential questions had shed a flood of light on Siddle's past and present, yet the informant was blissfully unaware of their real purport. And the way was opened so deftly. The purchase of a chemist's business would almost certainly be negotiated through a local lawyer. Let him be found, and Siddle's pre-Steynholme days could be "looked into," as the police phrase has it.
Furneaux's dramatic announcement brought the other two to the window. By this time Peters, gifted with a nose for news like a well-trained setter's for partridges, had begun to associate the quiet-mannered, gentle-spoken chemist with the inner circle of the crime, so waited and watched with the detectives for Siddle's reappearance.
Though not losing a second, he took every precaution to remain unseen, and, to the best of his belief, gained an inclosed yard at the back of Siddle's premises without having attracted attention. He slipped the catch of a kitchen window only to discover that the sash was fastened by screws also. The lock of the kitchen door yielded to persuasion, but there were bolts above and below.
Siddle, and Tomlin, if you please, are regarded as starters in the Doris Martin Matrimonial Stakes, and I don't think Tomlin could ever murder anything but the King's English. It is Siddle's volte face that bothers me." "Um!" murmured Mr. Fowler. He was not an uneducated man, but volte face, correctly pronounced, was unfamiliar in his ears. "The change was so marked," went on the detective.
Can you tell me if Siddle's mother is dead yet?" The question found Doris so thoroughly unprepared that she blurted out: "Have you had a telegram, too, then?" "No. But Siddle has had one, eh? Don't be vexed. I'm not tricking you into revealing post office secrets.
"If you really mean what you say, my warning would seem to have fallen on deaf ears." Siddle's voice was well under control, but his eyes glinted dangerously. His state was that of a man torn by passion who nevertheless felt that any display of the rage possessing him would be fatal to his cause. But, rather unexpectedly, Doris took fire.
Both men scowled at the distant figure, but neither passed any comment. They parted, the policeman walking straight on, Elkin bearing to the left. The chemist's shop stood exactly opposite the post office, so Elkin, arriving first, was aware of his unconscious rival's destination. He had not answered Mr. Siddle's greeting, but gazed moodily through a barricade of specifics piled in the window.
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