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"I have nothing to say," she said sullenly.

"I'm afraid I shall have to insist, Mrs Rogers," said Lestrade.

"Then I want them out of here," and she jerked her head at us.

"Mrs Rogers, you asked for them to be here," protested Lestrade. "You insisted on it."

"Yes, well, I've had my say, and now I want them gone."

Lestrade looked at us helplessly, and I folded my notebook and stood up.

"Don't worry about it, Chief Inspector," I said. "You can't be held responsible for the whims of other people. Or for their lack of manners," I added sweetly. "Good day, Mrs Rogers, Mr Coogan. I shall be down the hall, Chief Inspector, borrowing a typewriter."

As we went through the door, Mrs Rogers fired her final peevish shot at Holmes.

"And you made a rotten job of the wallpaper, too!"

* * *

It took only a few minutes to type a transcription of my shorthand, and it took Lestrade only slightly longer to receive Mrs Rogers's statement. He was sitting slumped at his desk, staring at it morosely, when we returned to his office. He straightened abruptly, glanced at Holmes and away, and fumbled with unnecessary attention at lighting a cigarette.

"How could she have known our evidence? Or lack of it?" He said finally.

"Did you leave her alone with that young constable who was taking notes?" enquired Holmes.

"He sat with her on the way down from Cambridgeshire, but— Good Lord, he told her? But how could he be so stupid?"

"With Mrs Erica Rogers, I shouldn't wager that you wouldn't have told her yourself, if she started in on you. She's a very clever woman. Don't be too hard on him."

"I'll have him back on the streets, I will." He seized his anger like a shield and would not look at us.

"What of the two men?" I interrupted impatiently. "Holmes said you had arrested them. What were their statements like?"

"Actually, we, er, we've decided not to arrest them just yet. Yes, I know, I thought we would, but we've let them go for the time being. Maybe they'll get cocky and hang themselves. There was nothing in those statements, nothing at all. The two of them were out both those nights, testing the engines on two cars. No alibis whatsoever, but they shut their jaws like a pair of clams after they recited their story, and they'll say nothing more."

"That doesn't sound like the Jason Rogers I met," commented Holmes.

"It's the old granny's doing, I'm sure of it. She's a cunning old witch, is that one, and she's put the fear of God into him to shut his trap. She was right about the need for a clear motive, though how she figured it out, I cannot think. Must have been her— Coogan didn't seem to have brains enough to pound sand down a rat hole. Without either a motive or harder evidence than buttons in a burn pile, five hairs that bear a passing resemblance to theirs, some smashed auto parts with a tiny bit of dried blood, and the fact that she got rid of a shelf full of murder mysteries, we'd be fools to give it a try. The only thing that's the least bit firm is the mud on your ladder, which matches the wet patch outside her potting shed, but even Coogan wouldn't have much trouble making a jury laugh at that. I'd rather go for Miss Russell's colonel, or Mr Mycroft's Arabs. I won't make an arrest yet, but we'll keep a very close eye on those boys. They may try to sell the stuff they took from you. If granny keeps an eye on them, they won't, but we can always hope. We'll get them, Mr Holmes, eventually. We know they did it, and we'll get them. Just, well, not yet." He ran out of words, then looked up from the intent study of his hands like a schoolboy before the headmaster, mingled apology and dread on his face, and shrugged his shoulders. "Without a motive, we'd be fools to make an arrest, and we've been over the inheritance with a nit comb— no insurance, no big expenses to make anyone need cash now. Wouldn't seem to make any difference if Dorothy Ruskin died now or twenty years from now. Her