“Only too pleased,” murmured Legge and looked only too wretched.

“Tell me,” said Alleyn, “have you formed any theory about this affair?”

“Accident.”

“You think that’s possible?”

Legge looked at Alleyn as if he had said something profoundly shocking.

“Possible? But of course it’s possible. Dreadfully possible. Such a way to do things. They should have bought traps. The chemist should be struck off the rolls. It’s a disgrace.”

He lowered his voice and became conspiratorial.

“It was a terrible, virulent poison,” he whispered mysteriously. “A shocking thing that they should have it here. The coroner said so.”

He spoke with a very slight lisp, a mere thickening of sibilants caused, perhaps, by his false teeth.

“How do you think it got on the dart you threw into Mr. Watchman’s finger?”

Legge made a gesture that disconcerted and astonished Alleyn. He raised his hand and shook a finger at Alleyn as if he gently admonished him. If his face had not spoken of terror, he would have looked faintly waggish.

“You suspect me,” he said. “You shouldn’t.”

Alleyn was so taken aback by this old-maidish performance that for a moment he could think of nothing to say.

“You shouldn’t,” repeated Legge. “Because I didn’t.”

“The case is as wide open as the grave.”

“He’s dead,” whispered Legge, “and buried. I didn’t do it. I was the instrument. It’s not a very pleasant thing to be the instrument of death.”

“No. You should welcome any attempt to get to the bottom of the affair.”

“So I would,” muttered Legge eagerly, “if I thought they would get to the truth. But I’m not popular here. Not in some quarters. And that makes me nervous, Chief Inspector.”

“It needn’t,” said Alleyn. “But we’re being very unorthodox, Mr. Legge. May we have your full name and address?”

Fox opened his note-book. Legge suddenly stood up and, in an uncertain sort of fashion, came to attention.

“Robert Legge,” he said rapidly, “care of the Plume of Feathers, Ottercombe, South Devon. Business address: Secretary and Treasurer the Coombe Left Movement, G.P.O., Box 119, Illington.”

He sat down again.

“Thank you, sir” said Fox.

“How long have you been here, Mr. Legge?” asked Alleyn.

“Ten months. My chest is not very good. Nothing serious, you know. I needn’t be nervous on that account. But I was in very low health altogether. Boils. Even in my ears. Very unpleasant and painful. My doctor said it would be as well to move.”

“Ah, yes. From where?”

“From Liverpool. I was in Liverpool. In Flattery Street, South, Number 17. Not a very healthy part.”

“That was your permanent address?”

“Yes. I had been there for some little time. I had one or two secretaryships. For a time I was in vacuums.”

“What?”

“In vacuum cleaners. But that did not altogether agree with my chest. I got very tired, and you wouldn’t believe how rude some women can be. Positively odious! So I gave it up for stamps.”

His voice, muffled and insecure though it was, seemed the voice of an educated man. Alleyn wondered if he had been born to vacuum cleaners and philately.

“How long were you in Liverpool, Mr. Legge?”

“Nearly two years.”

“And before that?”

“I was in London. In the City. I was born in London. Why do you ask?”

“Routine, Mr. Legge,” said Alleyn, and thought of Cubitt. “What I was going to ask you was this. Had you ever met Mr. Watchman before he arrived at Ottercombe?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Alleyn looked up.

“Do you mind telling us where you met him? You need not answer any of these questions, of course, if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t in the least object, Chief Inspector. I met him in a slight collision at Diddlestock Corner. He was very nice about it.”

Alleyn stared at him and he blinked nervously. Fox, Alleyn noticed, was stifling a grin.

“Was that the first time you saw him?”

“Oh, no. I’d seen him before. In court.”

“What?”

“I used to go a great deal to the courts when I was in London. I always found it very absorbing. Of course Mr. Watchman didn’t know me.”

“I see.”

Alleyn moved Abel’s best ink-pot from one side of the table to the other and stared thoughtfully at it.

“Mr. Legge,” he said at last, “how much did you have to drink on that Friday night?”

“Too much,” said Legge quickly. “I realize it now. Not so much as the others, but too much. I have a good head as a rule, a very good head. But unless he moved his finger, which I still think possible, I must have taken too much.”

He gave Alleyn a sidelong glance.

“I usually play my best,” said Mr. Legge, “when I am a little intoxicated. I must have overdone it. I shall never forgive myself, never.”

“How long was it,” Alleyn asked, “before you realized what had happened?”

“Oh, a very long time. I thought it must be tetanus. I’ve seen a man with tetanus. You see, I had forgotten about that dreadful stuff. I had forgotten that Mr. Pomeroy opened the cupboard that afternoon.”

“That was for—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Legge interrupted, again with that gesture of admonishment. “You’re going to remind me that he opened it to get the iodine for my face. Do you suppose that I can ever forget that? I was doubly the instrument. That’s what upsets me so dreadfully. He must have done something then, and accidentally got it on his fingers. I don’t know. I don’t pretend it’s not a mystery.” His face twitched dolorously. “I’m wretchedly unhappy,” he whispered. “Miserable!”

People with no personal charm possess one weapon, an occasional appeal to our sense of pathos. There was something intolerably pitiable in Legge; in his furtiveness, his threadbare respectability, his obvious terror, and his little spurts of confidence. Alleyn had a violent desire to get rid of him, to thrust him away as something indecent and painful. But he said: “Mr. Legge, have you any objections to our taking your fingerprints?”

The chair fell over as Legge got to his feet. He backed towards the door, turning his head from side to side and wringing his hands. Fox moved to the door, but Legge seemed unaware of him. He gazed like a trapped animal at Alleyn.

“Oh God!” he said. “Oh dear! Oh dear me! Oh God, I knew you’d say that!” and broke into tears.

ii

“Come now, Mr. Legge,” said Alleyn at last, “you mustn’t let the affair get on your nerves like this. If as you think, Mr. Watchman’s death was purely accidental, you have nothing to fear. There’s nothing very terrible in having your fingerprints taken.”

“Yes, there is,” contradicted Legge in a sort of fury. “It’s a perfectly horrible suggestion. I resent it. I deeply resent it. I most strongly object.”

“Very well, then,” said Alleyn placidly, “we won’t take them.”

Mr. Legge blew his nose violently and looked over the top of his handkerchief at Alleyn.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s all very well, but I know what tricks you’ll get up to. You’ll get them by stealth, I know. I’ve heard of the practices that go on in the police. I’ve studied the matter. It’s like everything else in a state governed by capitalism. Trickery and intimidation… You’ll give me photographs to identify and take my fingerprints from them.”

“Not now you’ve warned us,” said Alleyn.

“You’ll get them against my will and then you’ll draw false conclusions from them. That’s what you’ll do.”

“What sort of false conclusions?”

“About me,” cried Legge passionately, “about me.”

“You know that’s all nonsense,” said Alleyn quietly. “You will do yourself no good by talking like this.”

“I won’t talk at all. I will not be trapped into making incriminating statements. I will not be kept in here against my will!”

“You may go whenever you wish,” said Alleyn. “Fox, will you open the door?”