“I understand you all right. And you were surprised when you heard someone had shot this pocket-Hitler of yours?”
Mr. Coupland looked startled. “Yes, indeed, I was! Oh, dear, I hope I haven't given you a wrong impression! I didn't mean to say that Mr. Warrenby did anything to make anyone want to murder him! Often he would say things more by way of a joke than anything: twitting on about some little misfortune or mistake. Well, he's done that to me, and I won't deny it did make one angry, but—but there was nothing in it really!”
“I see,” said Hemingway. “Well, Mr. Coupland, I don't have to tell you that it's your duty to give me any assistance or information you can, so I'll put it straight to you: have you any reason to suspect that he may have been blackmailing—or whatever you like to call it!—anyone, at the time of his death?”
“No, Chief Inspector! No, no, none at all—I assure you! Well, I couldn't have! I never knew him privately, and in his practice—oh, no!” said Mr. Coupland, looking frightened and unhappy.
Hemingway, who had been watching him with his head a little on one side and an expression in his eyes which reminded Harbottle irresistibly of a robin on the watch for a titbit, nodded, and said briefly: “All right!”
At this point, the junior clerk slid into the room through as narrow an opening of the door as was possible, and stood hesitating on the threshold. Mr. Coupland glanced at the Chief Inspector for guidance, but as Hemingway did not seem to think that the intrusion in any way concerned him, he cleared his throat, and said, in rather a strained voice: “Yes, what is it?”
The youth trod delicately up to him, and murmured something to him, of which the only words which Hemingway heard were “Sir John Eaglesfield.” They appeared to exercise a powerful influence on Mr. Coupland, for, after exclaiming in a dismayed and startled way, he said: “I wonder if you would excuse me for a few minutes, Chief Inspector? One of Mr. Warrenby's most valued clients—!”
“That's all right,” said Hemingway. “You go and deal with him!”
Not unthankfully, Mr. Coupland removed himself. When the door had closed behind him and his junior, Harbottle, who had remained seated at Warrenby's desk throughout his chief's interview with the head-clerk, silent and observant, said: “What do you make of him, sir?”
“Oh, perfectly honest!” Hemingway replied, going to the desk, and looking at the mass of papers on it. “How are you doing, Horace? You seem to have got enough to keep you occupied!”