But it was the usual exasperating job that faced him. None of them had a complete alibi. Each of them could have slipped unseen into the taproom and come out again unnoticed. Abel had locked the bar shutter during closing hours, but every one knew where he kept his keys, and several times when the bar was open it had been deserted. Cubitt said he was painting from two o’clock until six when he returned for his evening meal. He had been one of the company in the taproom when Alleyn came in for the sherry but had left immediately to meet Decima Moore on Coombe Head. The others followed with similar stories, except old Pomeroy who frankly admitted he had sat in the taproom for some time, reading his paper. Each of them denied being alone there at any time after Abel had decanted the sherry. An hour’s exhaustive inquiry failed to prove or disprove any of their statements. Last of all, Mr Legge was brought down in a state of the profoundest dejection and made a series of protestations to the effect that he was being persecuted. He was a pitiful object, and Alleyn’s feeling of nausea increased as he watched him. At last Alleyn said:

‘Mr Legge, we only arrived here last evening but, as you must realize, we have already made many inquiries. Of all the people we have interviewed, you alone have objected to the way we set about our job. Why?’

Legge looked at Alleyn without speaking. His lower lip hung loosely, his eyes, half-veiled, in that now familiar way by his white lashes, looked like the eyes of a blind man. Only his hands moved restlessly. After a moment’s silence he mumbled something inaudible.

‘What do you say?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Everything I say is used against me.’

Alleyn looked at him in silence.

‘I think,’ he said at last, ‘that it is my duty to tell you that a dart bearing your fingerprints was sent to the bureau early this morning. They have been identified and the result has been telephoned to us.’

Legge’s hands moved convulsively.

‘They have been identified,’ Alleyn repeated, ‘as those of Montague Thringle. Montague Thringle was sentenced to six years imprisonment for embezzlement, a sentence that was afterwards reduced to four years and was completed twenty-six months ago.’ He paused. Legge’s face was clay-coloured. ‘You must have known we’d find out,’ said Alleyn. ‘Why didn’t you tell me last night who you were?’

‘Why? Why?’ demanded Legge. ‘You know why. You know well enough. The very sight and sound of the police! Anathema! Questions, questions, questions! At me all the time. Man with a record. Hound him out. Tell everybody. Slam every door in his face. And you have the impertinence to ask me why I was silent. My God!’

‘All right,’ said Alleyn, ‘we’ll leave it at that. How did you spend your afternoon?’