“When was the last time you saw Otto Lindholm?”
“The night before last—Thursday,—about eleven o’clock. We met at the east gate coming in.”
“What did he have to say to you?”
“Nothing much. He’s too thick-headed to learn English and he don’t say two words to anybody.” Snape spoke with lazy contempt, but there was an undercurrent of antagonism which McCarty recognized.
“He had a few words with you, though, didn’t he? What are you and him on bad terms about?”
“I don’t even know him, except to nod to when we meet!” Snape disclaimed. “He’s a surly customer and never had any use for Hughes even before—”
He checked himself but it was too late.
“Before Thursday night, eh? So Hughes was with you when you met outside the gate?” McCarty pounced on him like a flash. “What passed between the three of you? I want every word.”
“Oh, well, Lindholm just said ‘hello’ to me and then he stepped up to Hughes and growled something about letting his wife alone or he’d fix him. That’s all I know, I can’t repeat his lingo. Hughes blustered it out and Lindholm went on in ahead of us muttering to himself, when Dave Hollis opened the gate. I didn’t want to say anything about it, because of getting the woman into trouble, but what’s all this got to do with Hughes’ death?” The gray eyes lighted shrewdly. “You fellows think there was something wrong or you wouldn’t be raising all this row over it. Nobody had it in for him bad enough to do him any hurt, and the papers said nothing about his having been beat up! You don’t think he was murdered, do you?”
The amused insolence in the man’s voice was only slightly veiled. McCarty concluded that if he were putting it on he was indeed a smooth proposition, as the inspector had said.