‘I should be accustomed to persecution!’ the Prince said, with a dramatic gesture. ‘My God, have I not been persecuted enough already by the Bolsheviki?’
‘No knowing, I can’t say, sir, but you won’t get persecuted by Bolsheviks in this country, that I do know; though if you refuse to answer my questions you stand a very good chance of ending up inside a police cell.’
‘I did not know that my watch was slow!’ the Prince cried. ‘It was in innocence that I showed it to that woman! What would you? Do I know this place? Was I conducted to the doctor’s house? It is not easy to remember exactly what is told one! Of the murder I know nothing! But nothing!’
‘Oh! So you admit that your watch was slow, sir?’
‘It was slow, yes, but I did not then know it! Listen, for I will tell you all! It is true that I left this house at a quarter-to-five. I asked of Mr Carter the way to the doctor’s house, and he told me, but I forget. I remember that I shall come to a T-road, but there is no sign-post, and I do not recall which way I must turn. I turn to the right, but there is no village. I go slowly, but when in two – three – miles there is still no village, I am sure that I have taken the wrong turning. I come to a cross-road, and I see at last a sign-post, which tells me I have come away from Stilhurst. I turn the auto, therefore, and I go back. That is all!’
‘That’s all very well, sir, but when you fetched up at the doctor’s house after all this joy-riding, weren’t you a bit surprised to find it was only five-to-five by your watch?’
‘It didn’t signify. I did not take count of the time. Perhaps I was a little surprised, but what matter?’
‘When did you discover that your watch was wrong?’
‘Later. When I came back to this house.’
‘Oh you did, did you, sir? Then why did you tell Inspector Cook nothing about it? Why didn’t you tell him what you’ve just told me?’
The Prince flung out his hand. ‘But put yourself in my place! What a situation! What horror did I find here! I have done nothing, I am innocent! Must I say then that when Mr Carter was murdered I have no alibi? It is not reasonable! It is folly! I see that it will be better not to divulge the truth.’
‘Well, that may be your idea of what’s best, but it’s not mine!’ said the Inspector.
‘Ah, you do not understand! You do not appreciate the predicament in which I find myself ! Of what use to tell the police of the truth? It is not helpful; it will only confuse them, for I know nothing of the murder. It is clear to me, moreover, that it will lead to much unpleasantness if I speak the truth. It is more comfortable, much wiser, to tell a little lie. You cannot blame me for that!’
‘Well, that’s where you’re mistaken, sir, because if this story of yours is true, you’ve acted very wrongly.’
‘Ah, you are blind, stupid! You have no imagination, no understanding! What does it matter where I may be at the time of this murder? Ask, instead, where was Mr Steel? Where was Miss Cliffe? Did I not say you would become confused if it was known that I have not an alibi? Or is it because I am not English that you desire to make a case against me? Yes, I perceive what is in your mind! You say to yourself, “This man is a foreigner, therefore I do not trust him.”’
The Inspector strove with himself. ‘Of all the—! Look here, sir, on your own showing you’ve told me a lot of lies, not to mention what you told Inspector Cook, and now you turn round and say I don’t believe you because you’re a foreigner! Whatever next!’
‘I have shown you that it is of no account that I have concealed from you the truth. It is, in fact, for the best. You have made a mistake to drag from me the fact that I have lied to you, and you will regret it, for you think now that it is I who have killed Carter, and that is not so. Ah, but it is folly! Why, I demand of you, should I kill him?’
‘By all I can hear, sir, you’re very friendly with Mrs Carter,’ said Hemingway significantly.
‘You think that I killed Carter that I might marry Mrs Carter?’
‘Well,’ said Hemingway, ‘that’s why you’d like me to think Mr Steel did it, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, my friend, you are quite mistaken! No, no, it was not necessary that I should kill Carter, I assure you! You must know that he was not an estimable man, not a good husband, not any longer attractive, you understand. The affair would have arranged itself better, for Mrs Carter might so easily have divorced him. You perceive? You are a man of the world; I can speak frankly to you. I desire to marry Mrs Carter: I do not make a secret of it. But I do not like that Carter should be murdered; I prefer infinitely a divorce. It is reasonable that, is it not? Consider!’
The unexpected candour of this speech quite took the Inspector’s breath away. The Prince’s face had cleared; in his voice was a note of unmistakable sincerity.
‘Am I to understand, sir, that Mrs Carter was intending to divorce her husband?’
The Prince’s eyelids drooped; his sidelong look, and the gleam of a smile seemed to take the Inspector into his confidence. He spread out his well-manicured hands. ‘Gently, gently, if you please! You wish me to tell you that it was arranged already, but you must know that these things do not arrange themselves in the flash of an eye. I am entirely honest with you, and I say that all was in good train. I do not flatter myself when I say that I am a more desirable parti than this poor Carter. What would you? He is already growing old; he drinks; he spends the money that is his wife’s on other women; he is not even amusing! Above all, she does not love him. Consider again! I am not old; I do not become a little fuddled every night; I do not forget to accord to Mrs Carter that admiration which is her due. I am poor, yes, but I am a prince, and to be, instead of Mrs Carter, the Princess Varasashvili, would be a great thing, would it not? Ah, yes, one may say that the divorce was sure! You will see that I am perfectly frank with you, Inspector.’
‘You certainly are!’ said Hemingway, almost bereft of speech.
‘It is best. Between men of the world these little affairs are easily understood. The matter is now made plain, I think? You have no more to ask me?’
‘At the moment, I haven’t,’ said Hemingway. ‘But I wouldn’t like you to run away with the idea that telling me these highly remarkable plans of yours has cleared you, sir, because it hasn’t. Do you use a nail-file?’
The suddenness of the question startled the Prince. He replied evasively: ‘I do not know why you should ask!’
‘No, nor I don’t know why you shouldn’t answer,’ said the Inspector.
The Prince flushed. ‘Let me tell you, I do not like your manner!’