My Name is Michael Sibley Read Free Page B

sir. I just pointed out there were one or two odd features. That’s all. I didn’t say anything about murder, did I, Sergeant?”
    The Sergeant looked up. “I didn’t hear you, sir.”
    The Inspector thought for a moment. “Well, anyway, Mr. Sibley, that’s neither here nor there. Let’s get back. As I understand it, you didn’t keep up the association much lately, is that it?”
    “Not much,” I said. “He went into a bank, and I went up to Palesby on the Gazette . We drifted apart a good deal, though we kept in touch by letter from time to time. Of course, after I came down to London, last year, I saw a bit more of him. In recent months, that is. Now and again.”
    In spite of the careful official attitude of the Inspector, I saw clearly that this was a murder case. Though he might pretend formally that there were only one or two odd features which might easily be cleared up, it was obvious that he thought quite differently. I felt overwhelmed by the news, and inevitably found myself groping in my mind for some pointer as to who could have done it. I found none. It seemed that it could only have been some tramp or burglar in search of easy money; and I cursed myself for not sending the correspondent down to Ockleton itself. On the spot, he might well have picked up some hint that more was afoot than a mere inquiry into an accidental death. Now, after giving my word in the matter, I could do nothing further, at any rate for the time being. I was tied hand and foot.
    I heard the Sergeant’s pencil travelling over the paper, and presumed he was taking a shorthand note. The Inspector said nothing. He seemed to be waiting for me to continue.
    “He left the bank, of course. I think he was disappointed at not being sent out East. He had always set his heart on it. I think that is why he left. He went into business with a man called Herbert Day, as I expect you know, Inspector. Something to do with buying up bankrupt stock and stuff, and I believe they also did some importing from abroad.”
    The Inspector sat with his tawny eyes fixed on my face; he had a habit, which I found disconcerting, of sitting perfectly still and saying nothing, not even “I see,” or “Yes.” It was as though he was hardly listening to my words. I have never been a fluent talker, and if I find that my audience is not friendly or receptive I am not at my best.
    I continued, rather lamely, with a few more details about Prosset, floundered once or twice and corrected myself; this annoyed me, because I was telling the truth as far as I knew it.
    The Inspector turned over one or two pages in his file. Once again, it was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I had been down at Ockleton, but now a new picture was developing in my mind, and I wasn’t at all sure I would enjoy the look of suspicious interest which would inevitably flash across his face when I told him I had been with Prosset so shortly before his death. Moreover, I was trying to sort something out, to think quickly between questions, while still talking, and that is not so easy in practice.
    The Inspector looked up from his file and said, “What about this Mr. Herbert Day, sir? His partner, I mean. Know anything of him?”
    “I only met him twice. Once, many years ago, before I went to Palesby. We had some drinks one evening. He, Prosset and I, and a few others. I believe he was something to do with the Stock Exchange at that time. The other time was a few weeks ago, when I saw him for a few seconds only in Prosset’s car.”
    The Inspector made no comment. After a moment, he put a few questions about Prosset’s family in Ireland, which I answered as best I could. Then, after referring once more briefly to his file, he suddenly said, “I would like to ask you one rather confidential question, sir, just between ourselves, since you were Mr. Prosset’s pal. What impression did you form of this Mr. Day?”
    “I didn’t much care for him personally.”
    “Why not, Mr.