"The first thing I should like to know," said Hemingway, "is whether you'd got any particular reason for asking Mr. Carter here on Sunday."
"Oh!" said White, the smile leaving his face. "You needn't tell me who put you up to asking me that question. And while I'm about it, I may as well tell you that there's no love lost between me and Ermyntrude Carter, and never has been. Give her time, and she'll go around saying I killed Carter, though what on earth I should want to do such a dam'-fool thing for it would puzzle even her to say!"
"Now what makes you call it a "dam'-fool thing", sir?" inquired the Inspector.
"Seems obvious to me. Wouldn't you say it was a dam'fool thing to murder a man for no shadow of reason?"
"I'd be more likely to say it if there was a reason why it mightn't suit your book for Mr. Carter to be murdered," responded Hemingway.
"Oh, come off it!" said White. "I know just what you're at, and a pack of rubbish it is!"
The Inspector rose, and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. "I wouldn't like you to get me wrong," he said. "When I get on to a delicate matter, you'd be surprised how discreet I can be. You're quite sure that you and Mr. Jones and Mr. Carter weren't out to make a bit of money over this new building scheme they've got in Fritton?"
White looked a little discomfited by this direct method of attack, and shifted the blotter on his desk. "There's no reason why I should answer that sort of question."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that, sir! You're bound to assist me all you can, you know."
"You can't expect me to admit anything like that. Besides-'