Miller nodded rather dubiously at this reply and then asked:
“Where did you get this cocaine and the morphine?”
Wallingford hesitated for some time and at length, plucking up a little courage again, replied:
“I would rather not answer that question. It really has nothing to do with your search. You are looking for arsenic.”
Miller reflected for a few moments and then rejoined, quietly:
“That isn’t quite correct, Mr. Wallingford. I am looking for anything that may throw light on the death of Mr. Monkhouse. But I don’t want to press you unduly, only I would point out that you could not have come by these drugs lawfully. You are not a doctor or a chemist. Whoever supplied you with them was acting illegally and you have been a party to an illegal transaction in obtaining them. However, if you refuse to disclose the names of the persons who supplied them, we will let the matter pass, at least for the present; but I remind you that you have had these drugs in your possession and that you may be, and probably will be compelled to give an account of the way in which you obtained them.”
With that he pocketed the envelope, closed the drawers and turned to make a survey of the room. There was very little in it, however, for the bureau and its surmounting cupboard were the only receptacles in which anything could be concealed, the whole of the walls being occupied by open book-shelves about seven feet high. But even these the superintendent was not prepared to take at their face value. First, he stood on a chair and ran his eye slowly along the tops of all the shelves; then he made a leisurely tour of the room, closely inspecting each row of books, now and again taking one out or pushing one in against the back of the shelves. A set of box-files was examined in detail, each one being opened to ascertain that it contained nothing but papers, and even one or two obvious portfolios were taken out and inspected. Nothing noteworthy, however, was brought to light by this rigorous search until the tour of inspection was nearly completed. The superintendent was, in fact, approaching the door when his attention was attracted by a row of books which seemed to be unduly near the front edge of the shelf. Opposite this he halted and began pushing the books back, one at a time. Suddenly I noticed that one of the books, on being pushed, slid back about half an inch and stopped as if there were something behind it. And there was. When the superintendent grasped the book and drew it out, there came into view, standing against the back of the shelf, a smallish bottle, apparently empty, and bearing a white label.
“Queer place to keep a bottle,” Miller remarked, adding, with a smile, “unless it were a whiskey bottle, which it isn’t.” He drew it out, and after looking at it suspiciously and holding it up to the light, took out the cork and sniffed at it. “Well,” he continued, “it is an empty bottle and it is labelled ‘Benzine.’ Do you know anything about it, Mr. Wallingford?”
“No, I don’t,” was the reply. “I don’t use benzine, and if I did I should not keep it on a book-shelf. But I don’t see that it matters much. There isn’t any harm in benzine, is there?”
“Probably not,” said Miller; “but, you see, the label doesn’t agree with the smell. What do you say, Mrs. Monkhouse?”