My Name is Michael Sibley Read Free

he gone, things might have been so different. But the fact is, once the shock of Prosset’s death was over, I saw nothing surprising in the correspondent’s report. I knew he liked whisky.
    I had seen the small heap of bottles by the back door as recently as Saturday, the day before Prosset was to die in the flames and smoke. I had gone down to stay with him on the Saturday. Previously, I had cancelled the visit; but then, in the end, I had gone all the same, and stayed until early Sunday morning, when I had driven back.
    Had I stayed on, I reflected, the thing would probably never have happened. Prosset would still be alive and well.
     
    I looked at them curiously when they arrived.
    The Chief Detective Inspector was a broad-shouldered man, well above average height. I should say he was in his late forties. He had a round head, with closely cropped fair hair, receding slightly at the temples, and a brick-red face so keenly shaven that it seemed to radiate hygiene and good health. His features were regular, the nose and jaw clean-cut, but the lips were thin and the general impression you had was of a hard character in which sympathy, or indeed any of the more human emotions, had long since died. His eyes were not large, but were of a curious light brown, tawny colour, and he very rarely seemed to blink; it was as though he were afraid to allow his eyes to shut for even a fraction of a second, in case he missed something.
    He did not impress me as the sort of man who would have a single one of those endearing little habits or whimsical sayings which are so often attributed to police officers. He wore a reasonably well-cut black pinstripe suit, a white shirt and hard collar, a dark-grey tie, black Homburg hat, and carried dark-brown gloves and a black briefcase.
    The Detective Sergeant was a very different type.
    He was slim and dark, aged about thirty-two, and when he spoke I noted that his voice still retained a slight Welsh lilt. His face was naturally sallow, the nose rather pronounced. His eyes were large and dark, and he wore a clipped military-style moustache. To offset his grey flannel suit he wore a green tie with a thin white stripe, which might have been the tie of some cricket club or school, and brown shoes; he, too, carried gloves.
    I summed them up as a first-class working team: the Inspector, a competent, ruthless, police machine, thorough, well versed in the routine methods of crime detection, highly experienced. And the Sergeant, more mentally elastic, more subtle, helped by the imaginative strain in his Celtic blood.
    When I had closed the door, the elder man said, “We are police officers.” He introduced himself and his colleague, and as he did so he dipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, flashed a warrant card in a leather holder, and replaced it. The movement was slick and smooth, synchronizing with his words. You had the impression of a man who had spent so many years of his life doing the same thing that it had become second nature. You could see him, day after day, saying, “We are police officers,” and following the words with that quick movement with the warrant card.
    Probably nobody had ever had the courage to demand to examine it more closely. It occurred to me that for all practical purposes it might just as well have been a golf scorecard or a laundry list.
    The Inspector said, “It’s about the death of Mr. Prosset, sir.”
    “Sit down. What about a drink?”
    The Inspector lowered himself carefully into my smaller armchair, placing his hat on the floor beside him. The Sergeant went and sat on the bed-settee by the wall. I thought they might refuse my offer, but they didn’t.
    “Thank you,” said the Inspector. “Don’t suppose a drop would do us any harm.”
    He looked across at the Sergeant, who said he didn’t suppose it would either. The Sergeant smiled, showing good white teeth. I went across to a corner cupboard, and poured out three whiskies and sodas. While I did