“Well, I don't know,” said Roger. “They might, of course, but you can't be too careful with policemen. I've had a lot of trouble with them in my time, all sorts of policemen. Sometimes I think the English ones are the worst, but at others I'm not so sure. By the way, did you murder Arnold? I don't want to be inquisitive, but I wondered.”
“What do you suppose I'm likely to answer?” retorted Kenneth.
“Quite so,” said Roger. “Silly of me. What I mean is, it's a nuisance for you if you did, now I've come home. Waste of time.”
“Unless I murder you too,” said Kenneth thoughtfully.
“Now, don't start talking like that,” said Roger. “Before you know where you are, you'll be doing it. I never could stand impulsive people, never.”
Kenneth eyed him speculatively. “The best thing, of course, would be to foist Arnold's murder on to you,” he said. “I don't quite see how, at the moment, but I may think of something.”
“That's not a bad idea,” remarked Antonia. “You wouldn't have to make up a motive, either, because he's got one.”
“Well, I don't like it,” said Roger, a shade of uneasiness in his voice. “And it's no use going on with it, because I've already told you I only landed yesterday.”
“Moreover,” continued Antonia, brightening, “the knife was a foreign dagger or stiletto (I forget which), common in Spain and South America. They said so at the Inquest.”
“You never told me that,” Kenneth reproached her.