“Can I visit Aziz?” was his answer.
“No.” Now that he knew of Turton’s attitude, the policeman had no doubts. “You may see him on a magistrate’s order, but on my own responsibility I don’t feel justified. It might lead to more complications.”
He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde’s appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, “To whom do I apply for an order?”
“City Magistrate.”
“That sounds comfortable!”
“Yes, one can’t very well worry poor Heaslop.”
More “evidence” appeared at this moment—the table-drawer from Aziz’ bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal’s arms.
“Photographs of women. Ah!”
“That’s his wife,” said Fielding, wincing.
“How do you know that?”