“Is the number of your car AMG240?” asked Hannasyde.
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Then I don't think he was mistaken,” said Hannasyde.
“He must have been. He misread the number. Probably ANG, or - or AHG. In any case, I wasn't on the Hanborough Road at that hour.” He put up a hand to his head, and smoothed his sleek black hair. “If that's all the case you've got against me I mean, this Constable's memory against my word, I don't think much of it. Not that I wish to be offensive, you know. You detectives have to try everything, of course, but—”
“Quite so, Mr Mesurier.” The Superintendent's even voice effectually silenced Mesurier. “You are only being asked to account for your movements on Saturday night. If you were in your lodgings all evening you can no doubt produce a witness to corroborate the truth of that statement?”
“No, I don't think I can,” Mesurier said with an uneasy smile. “My landlady and her husband always go out on Saturday evening, so they wouldn't know whether I was in or out.” He became aware of a piece of cotton on his sleeve, and picked it off, and began to fidget with it.
“That is unfortunate,” said Hannasyde, and once more consulted his notes. He said abruptly: “You had an interview with Arnold Vereker at ten-thirty on Saturday morning. Is that correct?”
“Well, I wouldn't swear to the exact time, but I did see him on Saturday.”
“Was the interview an unpleasant one, Mr Mesurier?”
“Unpleasant? I don't quite -”