Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic by John Rowland Page B

paper. But what’s that got to do with me?”
    â€œWasn’t he a relative of yours?”
    â€œOh, yes,” admitted Moss. “He was my uncle. But I never saw much of him. In fact, I think that when my mother married my father she was more or less cut off by her family—I think that they had some sort of prejudice against the Jews, you know, and did not like the idea of her marrying into a Jewish household. This is all surmise, for she never spoke to me of it, but I summed things up that way.”
    â€œWould you be surprised to know that he left money to you?” asked Cunningham, and Moss grinned.
    â€œI certainly should,” he said. “The old devil never did anything for me in his lifetime, and I shouldn’t expect him to do anything for me after his death.”
    â€œWell,” said Cunningham, not knowing, of course, what the disclosure of the will might bring forth, and in any case not wishing to give away any information, but thinking that this might prove a useful lever to extract the data that he needed, “I can’t give you any information about that, but we understand that you may benefit under his will.”
    â€œHope to God I do,” answered Moss. “I’m pretty well broke at the moment, old man, and I don’t mind admitting it. So the old fellow has turned up trumps after all, has he?”
    â€œDon’t go counting too certainly on that, sir,” Cunningham advised him. “I only told you that it was at any rate possible.”
    â€œI imagine that your ‘possible’ is as good as another man’s ‘certain,’” returned the other, and Cunningham let the matter rest at that.
    â€œThere’s another point,” he said, “that has to be settled—purely as a matter of form. This is a question that we have to ask everyone who might be connected with the case, or who might be expected to benefit by Professor Arnell’s death.”
    â€œCarry on,” said Moss. “You won’t offend me, whatever your question is. I’m not one of these thin-skinned devils who take offence at every question.”
    â€œCan you give me an account of your movements yesterday?” asked Cunningham.
    Moss whistled softly. “Alibis, eh?” he said, and Cunningham nodded.
    â€œYou will understand that it is important to trace the alibis of everyone in any way connected with the case,” he explained, although he reflected that the explanation was probably quite unnecessary.
    â€œLet me see, now,” Moss said thoughtfully. “What exactly did I do? Oh, yes, I know. I went to the British Museum in the morning.”
    Cunningham was unable to restrain the “What?” that sprung unbidden to his lips.
    â€œYes,” said Moss. “The British Museum. What’s wrong with that? Nothing unlawful about going to look at the Egyptian antiquities, is there? I happen to be interested in ancient Egypt, and I went along there to have a look at them. O.K.?”
    â€œO.K.,” said Cunningham. “What time were you in the British Museum?”
    â€œFrom about eleven o’clock until half-past twelve, I should think,” answered Moss. “I had had a thickish night the night before, and I didn’t have breakfast until after ten.”
    â€œWhat did you do when you left the Museum?” pursued Cunningham.
    â€œWent to my firm’s place off Regent Street,” answered the young Jew. “There was an old lady there who was trying to decide whether she wanted a car or not. I ran her out to Slough and back—along the Great West Road—had tea with her, and succeeded in landing the sale at about half-past six.”
    â€œThen?” Cunningham was resolved to leave nothing to chance, although he felt fairly sure that the crucial part of the alibi would lie in the time which the young man had spent at the British Museum.
    â€œThen I went home, had some dinner