"You mean you think it would have put Seaton-Carew on his guard. It might, and it mightn't. Of course, if Seaton-Carew had reason to think Poulton wanted to do him in, I agree that you'd expect to find some sign of a struggle. Supposing he hadn't? Supposing this Poulton-bird walked in, just said, "Excuse me!" as though he'd just come to fetch something?"
"Och, mo thruaighe!" exclaimed the Inspector. "What would he have come there to fetch, tell me that?"
"By the time Seaton-Carew had thought that one up," retorted Hemingway, "the wire was round his throat! Mind, I don't say it happened like that, but even if it didn't there's no need for you to make those noises, which I take to be highly insubordinate. Go and fetch that pansy down to me!"
Mr. Sydney Butterwick, ushered into the boudoir a few minutes later, flinched perceptibly, but seemed to have himself fairly well in hand. His face still bore traces of the emotions which had ravaged it, but he was able to smile, albeit a little nervously, at Hemingway, and to assure him that if he could possibly be of assistance to the police they could count upon his cooperation.
"I was devoted to Dan!" he said. "Utterly devoted to him! I suppose anyone will tell you that. In some ways, you know, he was rather a marvellous person. Slow extravert, of course, and I'm definitely a quick extravert, but with a certain amount of overlap, if you know what I mean. I suppose you might call me an intuitive extravert. I'd better tell you at once that I wasn't in the least blind about Dan! In fact, I recognised and accepted him for what he was. In some ways, I do absolutely agree that he was just a handsome brute, and I shan't deny for one moment that I used to quarrel with him quite terribly. As a matter of fact he upset me rather poignantly tonight, and it's the most ghastly thought that the last time I saw him I was furious with him! Well, not so much furious as wounded. Of course, I know I take things to heart too much: my type always does - I don't know if you've read Jung?"
Inspector Grant's gaze shifted to the Chief Inspector's face. The Chief Inspector had two hobbies: one was the Drama; and the other, which he pursued to the awe, amusement, and exasperation of his colleagues, was Psychology. He had listened amiably to Mr. Butterwick's flow of words, but at this challenge he lost patience. "Yes, and Wendt, Münsterburg, Freud, and Rosanoff as well!" he replied tartly. "That's how I know you don't belong to the Autistic Type. I haven't had time yet to decide whether you're Anti-Social, or Cyclothymic, but I daresay I'll make up my mind about that presently."
This unexpected rejoinder threw Sydney off his balance. He said, with a titter: "How marvellous to meet a policeman interested in psychology! I think I'm definitely the Anti-Social, or Hysteric Type. I mean, I haven't a single illusion about myself. It's fatal not to face up to oneself, isn't it? For instance, although I adore Michael Angelo I do realise that that's probably an expression of empathy-wish, in the same way that -"
"Sit down, sir!" said Hemingway.
Sydney obeyed him, passing a hand over his waving fair locks, and then mechanically straightening his tie. "Do ask me any questions you like!" he invited. "I shall answer them absolutely honestly!"
"That's very sensible of you, sir," said the Chief Inspector dryly. "Suppose you were to tell me, as a start, what was the cause of your quarrel with Mr. Seaton-Carew last night?"