“Well, that isn't to say he did,” said Hemingway, in consoling accents. “I can see he isn't a popular candidate for the chief role in this highly interesting drama. What terms was he on with Sampson Warrenby?”
The Sergeant hesitated, casting a glance at Colonel Scales. But the Colonel did not raise his eyes from his pipe, which had gone out, and needed attention. The Sergeant said, a little awkwardly: “Well, sir, I wouldn't say they was on good terms. I don't want to put it too high, but it's a fact that Mr. Warrenby has done Mr. Drybeck a good deal of harm, professionally speaking—him being what you might call very go-ahead, and Mr. Drybeck more old-fashioned, like. Very successful, Mr. Warrenby has been.”
“All right,” said Hemingway, apparently dismissing Mr. Drybeck. “Tell me a bit about the rest of the dramatis personae! You can skip this Miss Patterdale of yours, and young Mr. Haswell, and the niece—I've forgotten her name, but as she's got an alibi, same like the other two, I daresay it doesn't matter.”
The Colonel looked up. “You have a good memory, Chief Inspector!”
Inspector Harbottle, casting upon his superior a look of vicarious and slightly melancholy pride, made his voice heard. “He has that, sir.”
“That'll be all from you, Horace!” said the Chief Inspector conclusively. “Let's take this Pole of your first, Sergeant! If I'd been told there was a Pole mixed up in this case I'd have reported sick. What's his unnatural name?”
The Sergeant once more consulted his notes. “Zamagoryski,” he enunciated painstakingly. “Though they mostly seem to call him Mr. Ladislas, that being his Christian name.”
“Well, we'll call him that too, though a more unchristian name I never heard!” said Hemingway. “The sooner we can be rid of him the better. I've had one case with a Georgian mixed up in it, and two more with Poles, and they pretty nearly gave me a nervous breakdown. This Ladislas, now, who was seen riding his motor-bike up Fox Lane shortly after five-thirty, how does he come into the picture?”
“Well, sir, they do say, in the village, that he's running after Miss Warrenby, and that her uncle wouldn't have him, not at any price. He's some sort of an engineer by profession, and he's got a job at Bebside's. He lodges with Mrs. Dockray, in one of the cottages beyond Mr. Drybeck's house. That one,” the Sergeant added, indicating it on the plan. “Nice-looking young fellow, in his way, but a bit excitable. By what he told me, though I'm bound to say I wasn't attending very closely, it not being any of my business, he used to be very well-off before the War. Estates, and such, in Poland. He was so keen on telling me I thought it best to let him get it off his chest. One or two of the gentry have taken him up, but most of them don't know him. He got to know Miss Warrenby, through meeting her at the Vicarage, and it seems she took a fancy to him. She's a very kind-hearted young lady. She told me she was sorry for him in the first place, and got to like him enough to be very friendly. Quite frank she was about it. Said it was true her uncle had forbid her to have anything to do with him, but that she hadn't held with that kind of snobbishness. Seems they used to go for walks together, and to the pictures once or twice, when Mr. Warrenby was away. Well, it was like I told you, sir. He was seen turning into Fox Lane on his motor-bike, round about five-thirty, by Miss Kingston. She keeps the sweet-shop in the village, and she'd gone out for a bit of an airing on the common, after she closed the shop. Quite definite it was him. Well, you wouldn't mistake him: he's a very dark, handsome sort of chap, and foreign-looking.”
“Didn't see him come out of the lane again?”