“Well, we don't bother about our neighbour's business in Brooklyn Terrace, sir. But, if he didn't want the room to sleep in or live in, why did he rent it?”
“Oh,” said the barrister warily, “that is just what we should like to know.”
With a nod of farewell the two men went on. They got into the waiting car in silence. With a glance at the inspector John Steadman gave the address of the library from which Thompson's book had been procured. Then as the car started and he threw himself back on his seat he observed:
“Admirably stage-managed!”
The inspector raised his eyebrows. “As how?”
“Do you imagine those people know no more than they say of Thompson?”
“They may. On the other hand it is quite possible they do not,” the inspector answered doubtfully.
“That room had been arranged for some such emergency as has arisen,” Steadman went on. “Thompson has never lived there. But he came there for letters or something. He has some place of concealment very likely quite near. I have no doubt that either of those men could have told us more. I expect they will give the show away if a reward is offered.”
“If——” the inspector repeated. “I don't quite agree with you, Mr. Steadman. I think those men were speaking the truth, and I doubt whether they knew any more of Thompson than they said. The man, who as you say, has so admirably stage-managed that room would hardly be likely to give himself away by making unnecessary confidants. But now I wonder for whose benefit this scene was originally staged?”
The barrister drew in his lips. “Don't you think Luke Bechcombe's murder answers your question?”