The Silk Stocking Murders by Anthony Berkeley Read Free Book Online Page B

idea, sir!” he observed, and laughed hollowly.
    Roger drank up the rest of his beer, looked at his watch and grabbed the Chief Inspector’s arm, all in one movement. “Come on,” he said. “Lunch time. You’re lunching with me.” And without waiting for a reply he began marching out of the place.
    The Chief Inspector, for once at a decided disadvantage, was left with no option but to follow him.
    Quivering all over, Roger hailed a taxi and gave the man the address of his flat.
    “Where are we going, Mr. Sheringham?” asked the Chief Inspector, whose countenance bore none of the happily expectant look of those about to lunch at another’s expense.
    “To my rooms,” replied Roger, for once economical of words. “We shan’t be overheard there.”
    The groan with which the Chief Inspector replied was not overheard either. It was of the spirit. But it was a very substantial spiritual groan.
    In an extravagant impulse not many months ago Roger had walked into the Albany, fortified by a visit to his publisher’s and the news of the sales of his latest novel, and demanded rooms there. A set being fortunately vacant at the moment, he had stepped straight into them. Thither he led the helpless Chief Inspector, now gently perspiring all over, thrust him into a chair, mixed him a short drink in spite of his protests in which the word “beer” was prominent, and went off to see about lunch. During the interval between his return and the serving of the meal, he regaled his victim with a vivid account of the coffee-growing business in Brazil, in which he had a young cousin.
    “Anthony Walton, his name is,” he remarked with non chalance. “I believe you met him once, didn’t you?”
    The Chief Inspector had not even the spirit left to forget his earlier promise and retort in kind.
    Let it not be thought that Chief Inspector Moresby shows up in an unworthy light in this episode. Roger had him in a cleft stick, and Moresby knew it. When police inquiries are in progress that necessitate the most profound secrecy, the smallest whisper of their existence in the Press may be enough to destroy the patient work of weeks. The Press, which may be bullied on occasions with impunity, must on others be courted by the conscientious Scotland Yard man with more delicate caution than ever lover courted the shyest of mistresses: Roger knew all this only too well, and only too well Chief Inspector Moresby knew that he knew it. But this time the situation was not amusing at all.
    In the orthodox manner Roger held up any discussion of the topic at issue until the coffee had been served and the cigarettes were alight, just as big business men always do in the novels that are written about them (in real life they get down to it with the
hors d
’
æuvres
and don’t blether about, wasting valuable time). “And now,” said Roger, when that stage had arrived, “now, Moresby, my friend, for it!”
    “For it?” repeated Chief Inspector Moresby, still game.
    “Yes; don’t play with me, Moresby. The boot’s on the other foot now. And what are we going to do about it?”
    The Chief Inspector tidily consumed the dregs in his coffee-cup. “That,” he said carefully, “depends on what we’re talking about, Mr. Sheringham.”
    “Very well,” Roger grinned unkindly. “I’ll put it more plainly. Do you want me to write an article for
The Courier
proving that Lady Ursula must have been murdered—and not only Lady Ursula, but Elsie Benham and Unity Ransome as well? Am I to call on the police to get busy and follow up my lead? It’s an article I’m simply tingling to write, you know.”
    “You are, sir? Why?”
    “Because I’ve been following up the Ransome case since the day after the death,” said Roger with emphasis but without truth.
    In spite of himself, and the traditions of Scotland Yard concerning amateurs, the Chief Inspector was impressed. Nor did he take any trouble to hide it. “You have, sir?” he said, not without