Superintendent Spence smiled appeasingly.

"Oh, we hope it mayn't come to that," he said mendaciously.

"It may be suicide," Beatrice suggested hopefully.

Superintendent Spence forebore to say that a suicide does not usually cave in the back of his skull with a pair of steel fire-tongs. Instead, he replied in the same easy manner:

"Never any good jumping to conclusions. Thank you, Miss Lippincott. Very good of you to come forward with this statement so promptly."

When she had been ushered out, he ran over her statement in his mind. He knew all about Beatrice Lippincott, had a very good idea of how far her accuracy was to be depended upon. So much for a conversation genuinely overheard and remembered. A little extra embroidery for excitements sake. A little extra still because murder had been done in bedroom No. 5. But take extras away and what remained was ugly and suggestive.

Superintendent Spence looked at the table in front of him. There was a wristwatch with a smashed glass, a small gold lighter with initials on it, a lipstick in a gilt holder, and a pair of heavy steel fire-tongs, the heavy head of which was stained a rusty brown.

Sergeant Graves looked in and said that Mr Rowley Cloade was waiting. Spence nodded and the Sergeant showed Rowley in.

Just as he knew all about Beatrice Lippincott, so the Superintendent knew all about Rowley Cloade. If Rowley had come to the police station, it was because Rowley had got something to say and that something would be solid, reliable and unimaginative. It would, in fact, be worth hearing. At the same time, Rowley being a deliberate type of person, it would take some time to say. And you couldn't hurry the Rowley Cloade type. If you did, they became rattled, repeated themselves, and generally took twice as long...

"Good morning, Mr Cloade. Pleased to see you. Can you throw any light on this problem of ours? The man who was killed at the Stag."

Rather to Spence's surprise, Rowley began with a question. He asked abruptly:

"Have you identified the fellow?"

"No," said Spence slowly. "I wouldn't say we had. He signed the register Enoch Arden. There's nothing in his possession to show he was Enoch Arden."

Rowley frowned.

"Isn't that - rather odd?"

It was exceedingly odd, but Superintendent Spence did not propose to discuss with Rowley Cloade just how odd he thought it was. Instead he said pleasantly:

"Come now, Mr Cloade, I'm the one who asks the questions. You went to see the dead man last night. Why?"

"You know Beatrice Lippincott, Superintendent? At the Stag."

"Yes, of course. And," said the Superintendent, taking what he hoped would be a short cut, "I've heard her story. She came to me with it."

Rowley looked relieved.

"Good. I was afraid she mightn't want to be mixed up with a police matter. These people are funny that way sometimes."

The Superintendent nodded.

"Well, then, Beatrice told me what she'd overheard and it seemed to me - I don't know if it does to you - decidedly fishy. What I mean is - we're, well, we're interested parties."