hard on his cigarette but talking quite freely. Before he had actually reached their Wednesday evening visit to the Swan, Grant deflected him. It was too early yet to ask him about that night.
'You don't really know much about Searle, do you,' he pointed out. 'Had you heard of him at all before he turned up at that party of Ross's?'
'No, I hadn't. But that isn't strange. Photographers are two a penny. Almost as common as journalists. There was no reason why I should have heard of him.'
'You have no reason to believe that he may not be what he represented himself to be?'
'No, certainly not. I may never have heard of him, but Miss Easton-Dixon certainly had.'
'Miss Easton-Dixon?'
'One of our local authors. She writes fairy-tales, and is a film addict. Not only did she know about Searle but she has a photograph.'
'A photograph?' Grant said, startled and pleased.
'In one of those film magazines. I haven't seen it myself. She talked about it one night when she came to dinner.'
'And she met Searle when she came to dinner? And identified him?'
'She did. They had a wonderful get-together. Searle had photographed some of her pet actors, and she had reproductions of them too.'
'So there is no doubt in your mind that Searle is what he says he is.'
'I notice you use the present tense, Inspector. That cheers me.' But he sounded more ironic than cheered.
'Have you yourself any theory as to what could have happened, Mr Whitmore?'
'Short of fiery chariots or witches' broomsticks, no. It is the most baffling thing.'
Grant caught himself thinking that Walter Whitmore, too, was moved to think of sleight-of-hand.
'The most reasonable explanation, I suppose,' Walter went on, 'is that he lost his way in the dark and fell into the river at some other spot, where no one would hear him.'
'And why don't you approve of that theory?' Grant asked, answering the tone that Whitmore used.
'Well, for one thing, Searle had eyes like a cat. I had slept out with him for four nights, and I know. He was wonderful in the dark. Secondly he had an extra-good bump of locality. Thirdly he was by all accounts cold sober when he left the Swan. Fourthly it is a bee-line from Salcott to the river-bank where we were camped, by the hedges all the way. You can't stray, because if you walk away from the hedge you walk into plough or crop of some kind. And lastly, though this is hearsay evidence, Searle could swim very well indeed.'
'There is a suggestion, Mr Whitmore, that you and Searle were on bad terms on Wednesday evening. Is there any truth in that?'
'I thought we should get to that sooner or later,' Walter said. He pressed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray until it was a misshapen wreck.
'Well?' Grant prompted, as he seemed to have nothing more to say.
'We had what might be called a—a "spat", I suppose. I was—annoyed. Nothing more than that.'
'He annoyed you so much that you left him at the pub and walked back by yourself.'
'I like being by myself.'
'And you went to sleep without waiting for his return.'
'Yes. I didn't want to talk to him any more that night. He annoyed me, I tell you. I thought that I might be in a better humour and he in a less provocative mood in the morning.'
'He was provocative?'
'I think that is the word.'
'About what?'
'I don't have to tell you that.'
'You don't have to tell me anything, Mr Whitmore.'
'No, I know I don't. But I want to be as helpful as I can. God knows I want this thing cleared up as soon as possible. It is just that what we—disagreed about is something personal and irrelevant. It has no bearing whatever on anything that happened to Searle on Wednesday night. I certainly didn't lie in wait for him on the way home, or push him into the river, or subject him to violence.'
'Do you know of anyone who would be likely to want to?'
Whitmore hesitated; presumably with Serge Ratoff in his mind.
'Not that kind of violence,' he said at length.
'Not what kind?'
'Not that waiting-in-the-dark
'You don't really know much about Searle, do you,' he pointed out. 'Had you heard of him at all before he turned up at that party of Ross's?'
'No, I hadn't. But that isn't strange. Photographers are two a penny. Almost as common as journalists. There was no reason why I should have heard of him.'
'You have no reason to believe that he may not be what he represented himself to be?'
'No, certainly not. I may never have heard of him, but Miss Easton-Dixon certainly had.'
'Miss Easton-Dixon?'
'One of our local authors. She writes fairy-tales, and is a film addict. Not only did she know about Searle but she has a photograph.'
'A photograph?' Grant said, startled and pleased.
'In one of those film magazines. I haven't seen it myself. She talked about it one night when she came to dinner.'
'And she met Searle when she came to dinner? And identified him?'
'She did. They had a wonderful get-together. Searle had photographed some of her pet actors, and she had reproductions of them too.'
'So there is no doubt in your mind that Searle is what he says he is.'
'I notice you use the present tense, Inspector. That cheers me.' But he sounded more ironic than cheered.
'Have you yourself any theory as to what could have happened, Mr Whitmore?'
'Short of fiery chariots or witches' broomsticks, no. It is the most baffling thing.'
Grant caught himself thinking that Walter Whitmore, too, was moved to think of sleight-of-hand.
'The most reasonable explanation, I suppose,' Walter went on, 'is that he lost his way in the dark and fell into the river at some other spot, where no one would hear him.'
'And why don't you approve of that theory?' Grant asked, answering the tone that Whitmore used.
'Well, for one thing, Searle had eyes like a cat. I had slept out with him for four nights, and I know. He was wonderful in the dark. Secondly he had an extra-good bump of locality. Thirdly he was by all accounts cold sober when he left the Swan. Fourthly it is a bee-line from Salcott to the river-bank where we were camped, by the hedges all the way. You can't stray, because if you walk away from the hedge you walk into plough or crop of some kind. And lastly, though this is hearsay evidence, Searle could swim very well indeed.'
'There is a suggestion, Mr Whitmore, that you and Searle were on bad terms on Wednesday evening. Is there any truth in that?'
'I thought we should get to that sooner or later,' Walter said. He pressed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray until it was a misshapen wreck.
'Well?' Grant prompted, as he seemed to have nothing more to say.
'We had what might be called a—a "spat", I suppose. I was—annoyed. Nothing more than that.'
'He annoyed you so much that you left him at the pub and walked back by yourself.'
'I like being by myself.'
'And you went to sleep without waiting for his return.'
'Yes. I didn't want to talk to him any more that night. He annoyed me, I tell you. I thought that I might be in a better humour and he in a less provocative mood in the morning.'
'He was provocative?'
'I think that is the word.'
'About what?'
'I don't have to tell you that.'
'You don't have to tell me anything, Mr Whitmore.'
'No, I know I don't. But I want to be as helpful as I can. God knows I want this thing cleared up as soon as possible. It is just that what we—disagreed about is something personal and irrelevant. It has no bearing whatever on anything that happened to Searle on Wednesday night. I certainly didn't lie in wait for him on the way home, or push him into the river, or subject him to violence.'
'Do you know of anyone who would be likely to want to?'
Whitmore hesitated; presumably with Serge Ratoff in his mind.
'Not that kind of violence,' he said at length.
'Not what kind?'
'Not that waiting-in-the-dark
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