Carter—to give him the name under which his warrant had been issued—looked around the room. A flash came into his eyes as he caught sight of Mr. Beale bolting the door.
“Pity I didn't kill you when I had the chance!” he spat out between clenched teeth.
Mr. Beale looked pointedly at the police-officer.
“You had better take it quietly. Talk of that kind won't help your case,” that official warned, phlegmatically.
Carter sat down.
“May I smoke?”
“A cigarette of mine, or here's my pouch if you'll let me have a look at your pipe first.” Pointer looked through the bowl and handed his briar back to Carter, who filled it, and then, hunching his shoulders, puffed away with his feet stuck straight out in front of him, his eyes on his boots. The Chief Inspector looked at him keenly. The man really was engrossed in calculations of some kind. Concentration oozed from him. The police-officer was on the alert. He had seen something like this once before, when a man had been arrested on a capital charge, and the result had been a swift suicide.
“It's a pretty average frowst in here; can the window be opened?”
Pointer flung it open and stood squarely in the opening.
Carter gave a harsh laugh, like a bark.