“Mr. Ackroyd is a good comedian on the stage. I find him less entertaining when he’s off it.”

“He looks a scream,” said Wade.

The scream appeared, ushered in by Cass.

Ackroyd was a dot of a man; beside the gigantic Cass he looked like a dwarf. “And his face is funny,” thought Alleyn. “That button of a nose was made to be painted red. He ought to be in pantomime rather than polite comedy. No, that’s not fair—he’s a really good actor. There are brains behind his work and that kind of humour that comes from inside—the Chaplin brand. But I don’t think he’s a very nice little man. Waspish.”

Ackroyd walked across to Inspector Wade with neat assurance. His stage mannerisms were faintly imposed on his everyday behaviour. One expected him to say something excruciatingly funny.

“I hope I don’t intrude,” said Ackroyd.

“That’s all right, sir,” said Wade heartily. “Take a seat. You wanted to see me about something?”

“That’s right. Mind, I don’t want you to take too much notice of it. It’s probably of no account. Still, I feel you ought to know about it. It’s dead against the grain with me to butt in on other people’s business, you know.”

“Lie,” thought Alleyn.

“We quite understand that, Mr. Ackroyd,” said Wade.

“It’s a confidential matter.” Ackroyd turned to Alleyn. “No offence, you know, old boy.”

“None in the world,” said Alleyn cheerfully.

“—so if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Mr. Alleyn is a detective,” said Wade. “He’s in this case with us.”

“A detective?” shouted Ackroyd. “By George, Meyer knew about it all the time, did he! Working for Meyer, were you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr. Ackroyd. I am a policeman,” said Alleyn, “not a private detective.”

“A Yard man?”

“Yes.”

“Then it couldn’t have been him you were after.”

“Who d’you mean?” asked Wade.

“Why, Hambledon, of course,” said Ackroyd.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

St. John Ackroyd and Susan Max

“HAMBLEDON?” SAID ALLEYN sharply. “What the—I beg your pardon, Wade,” he added instantly. “This is your show.”

“Go right ahead, sir.”

“Thank you so much.” Alleyn turned to Ackroyd. “I must confess I’m curious to know why you thought I was interested in Mr. Hambledon.”

“Don’t mind me, old boy,” said Ackroyd easily. “When the inspector here said you were a ’tec, I thought Alf Meyer had put you on to follow Hailey and the fair Carolyn. That’s all. Quite natural, you know, under the circs.”

“I see,” said Alleyn, and was silent.

“It’s like that, is it?” said Wade.

Ackroyd pulled a serio-comic face, thrusting his lower lip sideways with the tip of his tongue. “Very much like it,” he said.

“Common little stinker,” thought Alleyn.

“D’you mean,” asked Wade, “that she gave him cause for divorce?”

“That’s my idea. No business of mine, mind.”