I followed the prudent suggestion, and was presently joined by the inspector, who appeared relieved at finding himself shut in and alone with me.
We had whisky and soda ad libitum, and then I cautiously began: "The fact is, inspector," I said, "I was particularly anxious for this chance of a little friendly chat with you. I have certain suspicions which may be, of course, without a grain of foundation. What I mean to say is, I have grave fears that the murdered man is the friend I thought it possible I might identify. Who the murderer may be in any case remains to be seen, but if the body is that of the person I have in my mind, I might be able to put a clue into the hands of the police. 'A word to the wise,' you know, inspector! But first I am hoping for a little help from you before I run the risk of incriminating one who may be innocent. Quite between ourselves, allow me to ask what your police surgeon has had to say regarding his examination?"
The inspector looked dubious, then brightened visibly. "You being the man you are, Mr. Stanton," he said, sociably, over his third glass of old Scotch, "I can't see that there'd be anything amiss in my answering you so far. Our surgeon, Mr. Potter, reported that the corpse was that of a well-nourished man of somewhere between forty and forty-five years of age, all the organs healthy, though there were traces of opium in the system–not, however, enough to have caused death. The head had been severed from the neck by a skilled anatomist, who knew exactly where to strike; but it had been separated after death, not before. Also the mutilation of the left hand had been done in the same way. I suppose that is roughly the sort of thing you wanted to know?"
"Exactly," I returned, "and every detail you have mentioned goes to strengthen my suspicions. Being an amateur, I was obliged to judge principally by size and height. The surgeon's report fits in with my theory precisely. Still, it does not comprise everything. It would be a great assistance if I might know whether the police have yet had any reliable information to work upon."
We had grown very friendly, indeed, almost fraternal now, and the inspector kindly allowed me to refill his glass. "Do you know who Mr. Carson Wildred, of the House by the Lock, is, Mr. Stanton?" he enquired, confidentially.
The question surprised and excited me. Was it possible, I hastily asked myself, that already the police were on the same track that I was following? If so, Wildred must have shown himself a less impenetrable villain than I had had reason to suppose him.
"Yes, I not only know who he is, but have a slight personal acquaintance with him," I said conservatively.
"Well, sir"–slowly, and with some unction–"Mr. Wildred has been the only one so far–not counting what you yourself may have to say presently–who has given any information of value."
"Indeed? He has given information?" I could not eliminate the astonishment, and perhaps something of the disappointment, from my voice.
"Yes, sir. As you know Mr. Wildred, you're probably aware that his country house is close by our town, and close, too, to the spot where the body was found. He was in yesterday evening, as soon as the matter had got noised about, and asked to see the body."