“Wot do you think it might be worth to you?” he queried.
“Not a brass farthing. You should know that witnesses are not paid for their evidence. Don’t you misunderstand the situation, Beer, or you’ll find things mighty unpleasant. Come along now. Out with it.”
“How can I tell you if you won’t say wot you want?”
“I wouldn’t talk to you any more, Beer, only, I think you don’t understand where you are,” French answered, quietly. “This is a murder case. Mr. Pyke has been murdered. If you know anything that might help the police to discover the murderer and you don’t tell it, you become an accessory after the fact. Do you realise that you’d get a good spell of years for that?”
Beer gave an uncouth shrug and turned back to his digging.
“I don’t know nothing about no murder,” he declared, contemptuously. “I was just pulling Lizzie’s leg.”
“You’ve done it now,” French said, producing his card. “There’s my authority as a police officer. You’ve wasted my time and kept me back from my work. That’s obstruction and you’ll get six months for it. Come along to the station. And unless you want a couple of years you’ll come quietly.”
This was not what the man expected.
“Wot’s that?” he stammered. “You ain’t going to arrest me? I ain’t done nothin’ against the law, I ain’t.”
“You’ll soon find out about that. Look sharp now. I can’t spend the day here waiting for you.”