"I wasn't thinking of that," said Hannasyde, and left him gaping.
Chapter Fourteen
The following morning was considerably advanced when Sergeant Hemingway was at last free to journey down on the Underground Railway to Marley. His two interviews had not been very successful. Miss Jenkins, vacillating between instinctive fear of the police and a delightful feeling of importance, screwed the corner of her apron into a knot, giggled, patted her frizzy curls, and didn't know what. to say, she was sure. She hoped no one thought she had had anything to do with the murder, because you could have knocked her down with a feather when she read about it in the paper, and realised why she had been questioned. Under the Sergeant's expert handling she gradually abandoned her ejaculatory and evasive method of conversation, and reiterated her conviction that the gentleman in evening dress had passed only a minute or two before the policeman, and had certainly been wearing an opera hat, ever so smart.
From what he had seen of the erratic young man, Sergeant could not believe that this rider could be applied with any degree of appositeness to Neville Fletcher. He left Miss Jenkins, and went in search of Mr. Brown.
This quest led him to Balham, where Brown lived, and was peacefully sleeping after his night's work, His wife, alarmed, like Miss Jenkins, by the sight of the Sergeant's official card, volunteered to go and waken him at once, and in due course Mr. Brown came downstairs, blearyeyed and morose. He looked the Sergeant over with acute dislike, and demanded to know why a man was never allowed to have his sleep out in peace. The Sergeant, who felt a certain amount of sympathy for him, disregarded this question, and propounded a counter one. But Mr. Brown replied testily that if the police thought they could wake a working-man up just to ask him what he'd already told them they were wrong. What he had said he was prepared to stand by. Confronted with PC Mather's own statement, he stared, yawned, shrugged, and said: "All right: have it your own way. It's all the same to me."
"So you didn't see the Constable, eh?" said the Sergeant.
"No," retorted Mr. Brown. "The street's haunted. What I saw was a ghost."
"Don't try and get funny with me, my lad!" the Sergeant warned him. "What were you doing at 9.40?"
"Cutting sandwiches. What else would I be doing?"
"That's for you to say. Ever met a chap called Charlie Carpenter?"