4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [54]
“Yes, sir. Do you think that’s what he did do?”
“How do I know?” asked Inspector Craddock. “He’s a tall dark man. He could have been on that train and he’s got a connection with Rutherford Hall. He’s a possible suspect in this case. Now for Brother Alfred.”
II
Alfred Crackenthorpe had a flat in West Hampstead, in a big modern building of slightly jerry-built type with a large courtyard in which the owners of flats parked their cars with a certain lack of consideration for others.
The flat was the modern built-in type, evidently rented furnished. It had a long plywood table that led down from the wall, a divan bed, and various chairs of improbable proportions.
Alfred Crackenthorpe met them with engaging friendliness but was, the inspector thought, nervous.
“I’m intrigued,” he said. “Can I offer you a drink, Inspector Craddock?” He held up various bottles invitingly.
“No, thank you, Mr. Crackenthorpe.”
“As bad as that?” He laughed at his own little joke, then asked what it was all about.
Inspector Craddock said his little piece.
“What was I doing on the afternoon and evening of 20th December. How should I know? Why, that’s—what—over three weeks ago.”
“Your brother Harold has been able to tell us very exactly.”
“Brother Harold, perhaps. Not Brother Alfred.” He added with a touch of something—envious malice possibly: “Harold is the successful member of the family—busy, useful, fully employed—a time for everything, and everything at that time. Even if he were to commit a—murder, shall we say?—it would be carefully timed and exact.”
“Any particular reason for using that example?”
“Oh, no. It just came into my mind—as a supreme absurdity.”
“Now about yourself.”
Alfred spread out his hands.
“It’s as I tell you—I’ve no memory for times or places. If you were to say Christmas Day now—then I should be able to answer you—there’s a peg to hang it on. I know where I was Christmas Day. We spend that with my father at Brackhampton. I really don’t know why. He grumbles at the expense of having us—and would grumble that we never came near him if we didn’t come. We really do it to please my sister.”
“And you did it this year?”
“Yes.”
“But unfortunately your father was taken ill, was he not?”
Craddock was pursuing a sideline deliberately, led by the kind of instinct that often came to him in his profession.
“He was taken ill. Living like a sparrow in that glorious cause of economy, sudden full eating and drinking had its effect.”
“That was all it was, was it?”
“Of course. What else?”
“I gathered that his doctor was—worried.”
“Ah, that old fool Quimper,” Alfred spoke quickly and scornfully. “It’s no use listening to him, Inspector. He’s an alarmist of the worst kind.”
“Indeed? He seemed a rather sensible kind of man to me.”
“He’s a complete fool. Father’s not really an invalid, there’s nothing wrong with his heart, but he takes in Quimper completely. Naturally, when father really felt ill, he made a terrific fuss, and had Quimper going and coming, asking questions, going into everything he’d eaten and drunk. The whole thing was ridiculous!” Alfred spoke with unusual heat.
Craddock was silent for a moment or two, rather effectively. Alfred fidgeted, shot him a quick glance, and then said petulantly:
“Well, what is all this? Why do you want to know where I was on a particular Friday, three or four weeks ago?”
“So you do remember that it was a Friday?”
“I thought you said so.”
“Perhaps I did,” said Inspector Craddock. “At any rate, Friday 20th is the day I am asking about.”
“Why?”
“A routine inquiry.”
“That’s nonsense.