Who Pays the Piper? by Patricia Wentworth Page B

letters—let us say about ten minutes to each—and addressed the envelopes and stamped them—so that would bring us to between twenty and twenty-five past six. And then I got out a case of records and put on—now, let me see—it was the finale of the Ninth Symphony.”
    â€œA loud piece?”
    Abbott cocked a pale eyebrow.
    â€œA very loud piece, sir. Orchestra, chorus, four soloists—all going full split. Joie de vivre with the lid off—fully choral and fortissimo . In fact, very loud. It really might drown the sound of a shot.”
    â€œWe’ll try it out,” said Inspector Lamb.
    â€œHow many discs did you play?” said Frank Abbott.
    Mr. Phipson looked nervously helpful.
    â€œWell, I am not quite sure. There are three discs of the finale, and I put on the first one, and then my mind rather wandered to one of the letters I had written, so I let the record stop. In the end I re-wrote the letter, and I can’t really say whether I turned the disc over or put on the next one. I know this must sound very foolish and absent-minded, but I was thinking about my letter, and I am afraid I did not notice what I was doing. In fact, I was not really attending to the music—my mind was on something else.”
    â€œOn Mr. Dale?” said the Inspector.
    â€œOh, no, no—not at all.”
    â€œWould you care to tell us what you had on your mind?”
    Mr. Phipson dropped his glasses and picked them up again.
    â€œWell, really, Inspector, it was a private matter—a very private matter—but if you will regard it as confidential——”
    Inspector Lamb gazed at him with a kind of ponderous patience.
    â€œAs to that I can’t give any undertaking, Mr. Phipson. But a private matter that hadn’t anything to do with Mr. Dale’s death—well, neither Abbott nor me would mention it.”
    Mr. Phipson drew an agitated breath.
    â€œIt is naturally painful to me to have to take strangers into my confidence, but of course in a murder case I understand nothing is sacred. The letter I have alluded to was to a young lady, and my mind was a good deal disturbed over it. After re-writing it as I have told you I was still not satisfied, and in the end I decided to destroy it. You will now perhaps understand why I have no very accurate recollection of the order in which I played those records.”
    â€œWere you still playing them when Raby came to your room?” said Abbott.
    A gleam brightened Mr. Phipson’s eyes behind the pince-nez.
    â€œYes—yes—I was playing the last side. I remember that distinctly.”
    â€œThere are three discs, aren’t there?”
    â€œYes, yes—six sides. Marvellous music!”
    â€œThey would take a good twenty minutes to play even if you missed one side of the first disc. And you wrote a letter too.”
    â€œI may have missed more than one disc,” said Mr. Phipson in a dejected manner. “It is more than probable—in fact, I think I must have done so. With the interval I have already mentioned, I suppose I was playing from about five-and-twenty past—no, no, it would be a little later, wouldn’t it—I know the importance of being accurate—shall we say twenty-seven minutes past?” His nose twitched in a worried manner. “I am afraid I find it very difficult to fix the exact time, Inspector, because you see, I cannot be certain how long it took me to write those letters, but perhaps half past six—no, no, I think earlier than that—this is really very difficult——”
    Of all witnesses, the nervously conscientious witness is the least dear to the official heart. Interminable delays, small verbal quibblings, acute attacks of conscience over minor details have a very rasping effect upon the temper. Inspector Lamb said,
    â€œWe’ll leave that for the moment, Mr. Phipson. How long have you been with Mr.