“You know how it is, inspector. You can understand that sometimes a man suddenly waked out of heavy sleep can forget what happened the night before for the time being. That’s what happened with me. I clean forgot the dinner, Camplyn’s Saint Beau cocktail, everything. I only knew I had the devil of a head. I always rely on Austin.”
“When did you remember?” McWalsh demanded.
“When Camplyn came in to see me and ask for the ingredients of the cocktail which he claims I invented. Then I recollected everything and telephoned to you.”
“I knew that damned fellow was lying,” McWalsh cried. “He thought he was clever. He’ll find out just how smart he is! Tell me, Mr. Warren, what did he want to put up that fiction for?”
Warren put a hot hand to a head which still ached.
“I can’t imagine,” he answered. “I’ve never found him out in a lie yet. He’s too damn conceited to descend to one. I don’t think you should suspect Austin.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Warren, but I’ve got to. He lied to you and he lied to me and—ten thousand dollars’ worth of stuff was stolen. He’s in the outer room now. I’ll have him brought in.”
Austin entered with his precise and measured tread and bowed with respectful affection to his employer. He liked Conington Warren better than any American with whom he had taken service. The hearty, horse-loving type was one which appealed to Austin. He had several times been obliged to throw up lucrative jobs because employers persisted in treating him as an equal.
“This is a bad mix-up,” his master began. “The inspector seems to think you have been deceiving him.”
“He has and he knows it,” cried McWalsh.