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He went back outside into the square and found a seat from which he could see the entrance of Number 6.
It was more than an hour before Scarsdale arrived, and already beginning to get darker and colder, but Monk was compelled by the importance it had for him to wait.
He saw him arrive on foot, and followed a few paces after him, inquiring from Grimwade in the hall if it was indeed Scarsdale.
"Yes sir," Grimwade said reluctantly, but Monk was not interested in the porter's misfortunes.
"D' yer need me ter take yer up?"
"No thank you; I'll find it." And he took the stairs two at a time and arrived on the landing just as the door was closing. He strode across from the stair head and knocked briskly. There was a second's hesitation, then the door opened. He explained his identity and his errand tersely.
Scarsdale was not pleased to see him. He was a small, wiry man whose handsomest feature was his fair mustache, not matched by slightly receding hair and undistinguished features. He was smartly, rather fussily dressed.
"I'm sorry, I can't see you this evening," he said brusquely. "I have to change to go out for dinner. Call again tomorrow, or the next day."
Monk was the bigger man, and in no mood to be summarily dismissed.
"I have other people to call on tomorrow," he said, placing himself half in Scarsdale's way. "I need certain information from you now."
"Well I haven't any—" Scarsdale began, retreating as if to close the door.
Monk stepped forward. "For example, the name of the
young woman who visited you the evening Major Grey was killed, and why you lied to us about her."
It had the result Monk had wished. Scarsdale stopped dead. He fumbled for words, trying to decide whether to bluff it out or attempt a little late conciliation. Monk watched him with contempt.
"I—er," Scarsdale began. "I—think you have misunderstood—er . . ."He still had not made the decision.
Monk's face tightened. "Perhaps you would prefer to discuss it somewhere more discreet than the hallway?" He looked towards the stairs, and the landing where other doorways led off—including Grey's.
"Yes—yes I suppose so." Scarsdale was now acutely uncomfortable, a fine beading of sweat on his brow. "Although I really cannot tell you anything germane to the issue, you know." He backed into his own entranceway and Monk followed. "The young lady who visited me has no connection with poor Grey, and she neither saw nor heard anyone else!"
Monk closed the main door, then followed him into the sitting room.
"Then you asked her, sir?" He allowed his face to register interest.
"Yes, of course I did!" Scarsdale was beginning to regain his composure, now that he was among his own possessions. The gas was lit and turned up; it glowed gently on polished leather, old Turkey carpet and silver-framed photographs. He was a gentleman, facing a mere member of Peel's police. "Naturally, if there had been anything that could have assisted you in your work, I should have told you." He used the word work with a vague condescension, a mark of the gulf between them. He did not invite Monk to sit, and remained standing himself, rather awkwardly between the sideboard and the sofa.
"And this young lady, of course, is well known to you?" Monk did not try to keep his own sarcastic contempt out of his voice.
Scarsdale was confused, not sure whether to affect insult
or to prevaricate because he could think of nothing suitably crushing. He chose the latter.
"I beg your pardon?" he said stiffly.
"You can vouch for her truthfulness," Monk elaborated, his eyes meeting Scarsdale's with a bitter smile. "Apart from her . . . work"—he deliberately chose the same word—"she is a person of perfect probity?"
Scarsdale colored heavily and Monk realized he had lost any chance of cooperation from him.
"You exceed your authority!" Scarsdale snapped. "And you are impertinent. My private affairs are no concern of yours. Watch your tongue, or I shall be obliged to complain to your superiors." He looked at Monk and decided this was not a good idea. "The woman in question has no reason to lie," he said stiffly. "She came up alone and left alone, and saw no one at either time, except Grim-wade, the porter; and you can ascertain that from him. No one enters these buildings without his permission, you know." He sniffed very slightly. "This is not a common rooming house!" His eyes glanced for a second at the handsome furnishings, then back at Monk.
"Then it follows that Grimwade must have seen the murderer," Monk replied, keeping his eyes on Scarsdale's face.
Scarsdale saw the imputation, and paled; he was arrogant, and perhaps bigoted, but he was not stupid.
Monk took what he believed might well be his best chance.
