‘No, what I’m saying is that the police believe him to be a man called Martin.’
‘Well, I take it they have good grounds for their belief.’
‘Excellent grounds. He had letters, and identity papers. Even better, his people have identified him.’
‘They did! Then what have you been stringing me along for! There isn’t any suggestion that that man was Bill! If the police are satisfied that the man was a Frenchman called Martin, why in thunder should you decide that he wasn’t Martin at all but Bill Kenrick!’
‘Because I’m the only person in the world who has seen both the man in B Seven and that snapshot.’ Grant nodded at the photograph where it lay on the dressing-table.
This gave Cullen pause. Then he said: ‘But that’s a poor photograph. It can’t convey much to someone who has never seen Bill.’
‘It may be a poor photograph in the sense that it is a mere snapshot, but it is a very good likeness indeed.’
‘Yes,’ Cullen said slowly, ‘it is.’
‘Consider three things; three facts. One: Charles Martin’s people had not seen him for years, and then they saw only a dead face; if you are told that your son has died, and no one suggests that there is any doubt as to identity, you see the face you expected to see. Two: the man known as Charles Martin was found dead on a train on the same day as Bill Kenrick was due to join you in Paris. Three: in his compartment there was a pencilled jingle about talking beasts and singing sands, a subject that on your own showing had interested Bill Kenrick.’
‘Did you tell the police about the paper?’