“I haven't studied it, sir. I thought I'd better do so, though.”
Hemingway nodded, turning over the thin leaves in a cursory survey. “Yes, quite right. You never know what—” He broke off suddenly. “Well, I'm damned!”
“What have you found, sir?” demanded the Inspector, bending over him to see what was written on the page.
“Something I wasn't expecting, and didn't more than half believe in. Horace, let it be a lesson to you! Always pay attention to what people say to you, no matter how silly you may think it sounds!”
“You do,” said Harbottle.
“I didn't this time. I had a suspicion that your friend Plenmeller was trying to see whether he could get me to follow a red herring. He told me to look for someone called Nenthall—and here he is, my lad! Francis Aloysius Nenthall, Red Lodge, Braidhurst, Surrey. Damn! I wish I'd looked at this book before I rang the Superintendent up! I'll have to get on to him again first thing tomorrow.”
“What did Plenmeller say about this man?”
“He said that Warrenby once asked Lindale if the name conveyed anything to him, and that it obviously conveyed a lot more than he liked—though he denied it. Which may, or may not be true. What I'm sure of is that Ultima Unlikely was right when she said there was something fishy about the Lindale set-up. There is. She's scared white, and he's playing every ball sent down to him with a dead bat. They've got something they're desperately anxious I shan't find out. So has the Squire—but I think I know what that is. This is a nice case, Horace.”
“I don't see it, sir.”
“No, and you never will, because you're not interested in psychology.”