He looked the police-officer squarely in the eye. Pointer had received excellent witness of Mr. Beale's character and reputation, and yet—he was sure that the other had recognised the corpse. He decided to blurt out Eames' real name. “We have found out that Eames was really a Scotsman named Erskine living in Canada; and to the best of our belief the man you call Green, and speak of as a well-known crook who goes under many aliases, is his partner, John Carter. Both are wanted for embezzlement, we are told, though so far no particulars have come in.”
Mr. Beale looked the picture of surprise.
“You don't say!” There was a short pause. Pointer wondered whether Mr. Beale was choosing his next words with care.
“Partner in what? Safe-opening? What kind of a business did this Eames, I forget what you called him, run?”
“We hear that he was manager of the Toronto Silk Mills.”
Mr. Beale made no comment except to give a cluck of amazement. There was a little pause, then the Englishman came back to the case in hand.
“May I ask, sir, why you didn't write and let us know where you were? Your evidence was greatly wanted at the last inquest, and will be absolutely necessary in two weeks' time.”
Mr. Beale raised his eyebrows. “It may be quite impossible for me to come over,” he said coldly; “and as to writing—the American Embassy was informed of my whereabouts, I guess.”
The police-officer rose.
“Then, sir, if I can be of no use here, I wish you a good-morning,” he began formally; but Mr. Beale, having shown his superiority to any police regulations, pressed him down into his chair with an affable hand, and this time insisted on ordering a drink. Pointer chose tea, which seemed to the other originality verging on eccentricity, and took his leave as soon as he could escape. He made no mention of the green and white striped paper. Mr. Beale was not the kind of man of whom to ask too many explanations, but the Chief Inspector was closeted for some time with a Brussels confrère, and if the Belgium police were openly to hunt for the missing Green, the Yard received the private assurance that they would also not forget to keep an unobtrusive eye on the wealthy, well-documented Mr. Beale, who still puzzled Pointer. That astute officer never for a moment forgot the sketchy alibi, the cigar ashes over Erskine's tie, the emptied basin, and various other puzzling odds and ends, such as the scrap of green and white wrapping paper picked up in a room where he had spent many hours. It was still Mr. Beale who struck Pointer as not fitting into the picture. He thought that the American's presence gave an unreal effect. That where he showed, an impartial scrutiny could dimly detect different outlines and other colours beneath.