“I stopped on my way home to look up his record,” Pointer continued unmoved; “it's his first job of the kind. But his father was manager of the Metropole at Scarborough. There's nothing against his character so far.”
“Ah, just let him wait till you have another go at him.”
“The Enterprise has always been a well conducted house under him.”
“Say no more,” begged O'Connor, “his guilt seems piling up with every second.”
“I hope to trace that 'phone call on Monday.”
“Disguised voice making you think of the manager? Sherlock Holmes putting two and two together after having looked at the answer in the back of the book.” O'Connor laid down his tool to strike an attitude.
“The manager might have sent it, that's my only point so far.”
“And what about the American, the one you have your eye on because you think he threw his wash-water out of the window? What else have you ag'in him?”
“He recognised Eames. Or at least he knows something about him, about his death possibly. I'll bet you anything you like I'm not mistaken. His control over his face is what you'd expect from a big newspaper man, but just for a second, when he thought no one was watching, he looked down at Eames' face with—well, there was recognition of some kind in his eye, and a lot besides—a lot! I had my small looking-glass in my hand under my handkerchief and was studying him.”
“The Embassy seems a good reference. Perhaps he was bluffing when he gave it you?”