Now, Mr McGrath,I want you to tell me in as much detail as you can what it was you said to the press about Mr Radeechy.”
McGrath once more rolled his eyes, taking his time about it. He said, “I can’t really remember much—”
“You can’t expect me to believe that,” said Ducane. “Come on. We shall have the story itself in our hands very shortly. And if you help me now I may be able to help you later.”
“Well,” said McGrath, who seemed for the first time a little perturbed, “well—” Then he said, “I liked Mr Radeechy, Sir, I liked him, I did—”
Ducane felt a quickening of interest. He felt closer to McGrath, as a bull-fighter might feel to the bull after he had touched it. “You knew him well—?” said Ducane softly. He had often had occasion to question people, and the sensation which he now had was familiar to him, the sense of spinning in the quietness of the room a web of sympathetic atmosphere for the unwary. Ducane felt a bit guilty at being good at this. This “making people talk” was not just a matter of what was said or even how it was said—it was a talent which depended upon all sorts of intuitive, perhaps telepathic, emanations of an almost physical kind.
“Yes—” said McGrath. He had put his hands on the desk again and was looking at them. His hands were singularly clean. The little fly was visiting him now, but he did not shake it off. McGrath and the fly eyed each other. “He was a nice gentleman to me. I did things for him, like. Things outside the office.”
“What sort of things?” said Ducane softly.
“Well, for his magic, see, he needed things. I used to go to his house, you know, out at Ealing.”
“You mean you brought him things he needed for his—magic rituals?”
“Yes. He was a rum chap, was Mr Radeechy. Harmless sort of looney, I suppose you’d call him. But he was a clever chap, mind you. He knew all about that magic business, its history and all. You’ve never seen so many big books as he had about it. He was a real operator, he knew the lot.”
“What were the things you brought him?”
“Oh, all kinds. You never knew what he’d be wanting next. Feathers, he wanted once, white feathers. And allkinds of herbs and sorts of oil. I used to get them at the Health Food Stores. And birds he wanted sometimes, and little animals, mice like.”
“Live ones?”
“Yes, Sir. I used to get them at the Pet Shop. I think they got suspicious in the end.”
Ducane shuddered. “Go on.”
“Then there were things he got for himself like weeds, nightshade and that, and he wanted to teach me to recognise them so I could go to the country and pick them for him, but I didn’t care for it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the country,” said McGrath. He added, “I was a bit afraid of those plants, actually growing, it’s different in a shop, you understand—”
“I understand. Did Mr Radeechy really believe in his rituals?”
“Oh Lord, yes,” said McGrath in an aggrieved tone. “He wasn’t doing it just for fun. He could do it, too, I mean it worked—”
“It worked—?”
“Well, I don’t know, I was never there , mind you, but Mr Radeechy was a very strange man, Sir, a man you might say who had supernatural powers. There was a very funny atmosphere round about that man.”
“Have you any definite evidence of Mr Radeechy’s supernatural powers, or was this just something that you felt?”
“Well, as to evidence, no, but you felt it, like—”
“Yes, I can imagine that. Where did you first meet Mr Radeechy?”
“Here in the office, Sir.”
“I see. And you did these odd jobs of shopping for him, for which I imagine he paid you?”
“Well, yes, Sir, he did pay me a little for my time—”
“Quite. Did you see anything of Mrs Radeechy?”
“I didn’t see much of the lady, Sir, she rather kept out of the way, but I did meet her just to say good evening.”
“Did she seem to object in any way to your visiting the
McGrath once more rolled his eyes, taking his time about it. He said, “I can’t really remember much—”
“You can’t expect me to believe that,” said Ducane. “Come on. We shall have the story itself in our hands very shortly. And if you help me now I may be able to help you later.”
“Well,” said McGrath, who seemed for the first time a little perturbed, “well—” Then he said, “I liked Mr Radeechy, Sir, I liked him, I did—”
Ducane felt a quickening of interest. He felt closer to McGrath, as a bull-fighter might feel to the bull after he had touched it. “You knew him well—?” said Ducane softly. He had often had occasion to question people, and the sensation which he now had was familiar to him, the sense of spinning in the quietness of the room a web of sympathetic atmosphere for the unwary. Ducane felt a bit guilty at being good at this. This “making people talk” was not just a matter of what was said or even how it was said—it was a talent which depended upon all sorts of intuitive, perhaps telepathic, emanations of an almost physical kind.
“Yes—” said McGrath. He had put his hands on the desk again and was looking at them. His hands were singularly clean. The little fly was visiting him now, but he did not shake it off. McGrath and the fly eyed each other. “He was a nice gentleman to me. I did things for him, like. Things outside the office.”
“What sort of things?” said Ducane softly.
“Well, for his magic, see, he needed things. I used to go to his house, you know, out at Ealing.”
“You mean you brought him things he needed for his—magic rituals?”
“Yes. He was a rum chap, was Mr Radeechy. Harmless sort of looney, I suppose you’d call him. But he was a clever chap, mind you. He knew all about that magic business, its history and all. You’ve never seen so many big books as he had about it. He was a real operator, he knew the lot.”
“What were the things you brought him?”
“Oh, all kinds. You never knew what he’d be wanting next. Feathers, he wanted once, white feathers. And allkinds of herbs and sorts of oil. I used to get them at the Health Food Stores. And birds he wanted sometimes, and little animals, mice like.”
“Live ones?”
“Yes, Sir. I used to get them at the Pet Shop. I think they got suspicious in the end.”
Ducane shuddered. “Go on.”
“Then there were things he got for himself like weeds, nightshade and that, and he wanted to teach me to recognise them so I could go to the country and pick them for him, but I didn’t care for it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the country,” said McGrath. He added, “I was a bit afraid of those plants, actually growing, it’s different in a shop, you understand—”
“I understand. Did Mr Radeechy really believe in his rituals?”
“Oh Lord, yes,” said McGrath in an aggrieved tone. “He wasn’t doing it just for fun. He could do it, too, I mean it worked—”
“It worked—?”
“Well, I don’t know, I was never there , mind you, but Mr Radeechy was a very strange man, Sir, a man you might say who had supernatural powers. There was a very funny atmosphere round about that man.”
“Have you any definite evidence of Mr Radeechy’s supernatural powers, or was this just something that you felt?”
“Well, as to evidence, no, but you felt it, like—”
“Yes, I can imagine that. Where did you first meet Mr Radeechy?”
“Here in the office, Sir.”
“I see. And you did these odd jobs of shopping for him, for which I imagine he paid you?”
“Well, yes, Sir, he did pay me a little for my time—”
“Quite. Did you see anything of Mrs Radeechy?”
“I didn’t see much of the lady, Sir, she rather kept out of the way, but I did meet her just to say good evening.”
“Did she seem to object in any way to your visiting the
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