"He's a small-time criminal. Done time and came out of gaol about a year ago. We found his finger-prints on the late Ernest's desk."
Glass frowned. "How is such an one concerned in the case? Truly, the way is dark."
"Not as dark as you think," replied the Sergeant. "Carpenter was mixed up with one of the late Ernest's little bits of fluff. That crack of yours about the girl in the photograph having an end as bitter as wormwood was one of your luckier shots. That was Angela Angel, the same that committed suicide sixteen months ago. It looks as though she didn't want to go on living when the late Ernest shook her off - supposing he was the boy-friend, which it's pretty certain he was. Silly little fool, of course, but you can't help feeling sorry for the kid."
"The soul that sinneth, it shall die," Glass said harshly. "Is it thought that Carpenter slew Ernest Fletcher?"
"That's what we can't make out. We shan't till we lay our hands on him. It looks a cinch, on the face of it, but somehow it doesn't fit with what we know of him. My own idea is that Charlie thought he saw his way to putting the black on the late Ernest, over Angela's death."
"It is possible. But he would not then kill Fletcher."
"You wouldn't think so, but when you've seen as much crime as I have, my lad, you'll know that the more improbable a thing seems to be the more likely it is it'll turn out to be a fact. But I won't deny you've made a point. What the Chief thinks is that Carpenter may have seen the real murderer."
Glass turned his arctic gaze upon the Sergeant. "How should that be? Why should he remain silent if it were so?"
"That's easy. He's not the sort to go running to the police. He'd have to explain why he was at Greystones, for one thing."
"True. Is his habitation known to you?"