A Shilling for Candles Read Online Free PDF Page A

date for resumption.
    Hopkins had decided that, the Clay death being apparently no accident, and
Scotland Yard not being able so far to make any arrest, the person to
cultivate was undoubtedly the man in the flannel bags. Tisdall, his name was.
Bart said that every newspaper man in England had tried to interview him the
previous day (Hopkins being then en route from the poker murder) but that he
had been exceptionally tough. Called them ghouls, and vultures, and rats, and
other things less easy of specification, and had altogether seemed unaware of
the standing of the Press. No one was rude to the Press anymore—not
with impunity, that was.
    But Hopkins had great faith in his power to seduce the human mind.
    “Your name Tisdall, by any chance?” he asked casually, “finding” himself
alongside the young man in the crowded procession to the door.
    The man’s face hardened into instant enmity.
    “Yes, it is,” he said aggressively.
    “Not old Tom Tisdall’s nephew?”
    The face cleared swiftly.
    “Yes. Did you know Uncle Tom?”
    “A little,” admitted Hopkins, no whit dismayed to find that there really
was a Tom Tisdall.
    “You seem to know about my giving up the Stannaway?”
    “Yes, someone told me,” Hopkins said, wondering if the Stannaway was a
house, or what? “What are you doing now?”
    By the time they had reached the door, Hopkins had established himself.
“Can I give you a lift somewhere? Come and have lunch with me?”
    A pip! In half an hour he’d have a front-page story. And this was the baby
they said was difficult! No, there was no doubt of it: he, James Brooke
Hopkins, was the greatest newspaper man in the business.
    “Sorry, Mr. Hopkins,” said Grant’s pleasant voice at his shoulder. “I
don’t want to spoil your party, but Mr. Tisdall has an appointment with me.”
And, since Tisdall betrayed his astonishment and Hopkins his instant putting
two and two together, he added, “We’re hoping he can help us.”
    “I don’t understand,” Tisdall was beginning. And Hopkins, seeing that
Tisdall was unaware of Grant’s identity, rushed in with glad
maliciousness.
    “That is Scotland Yard,” he said. “Inspector Grant. Never had an unsolved
crime to his name.”
    “I hope you write my obituary,” Grant said.
    “I hope I do!” the journalist said, with fervor.
    And then they noticed Tisdall. His face was like parchment, dry and old
and expressionless. Only the pulse beating hard at his temple suggested a
living being. Journalist and detective stood looking in mutual astonishment
at so unexpected a result of Hopkins’s announcement. And then, seeing the
man’s knees beginning to sag, Grant took him hastily by the arm.
    “Here! Come and sit down. My car is just here.”
    He edged the apparently blind Tisdall through the dawdling, chattering
crowd, and pushed him into the rear seat of a dark touring car.
    “Westover,” he said to the chauffeur, and got in beside Tisdall.
    As they went at snail’s pace towards the high road, Grant saw Hopkins
still standing where they had left him. That Jammy Hopkins should stay
without moving for more than three consecutive minutes argued that he was
being given furiously to think. From now on—the Inspector
sighed—the camelfly would be a bloodhound.
    And the Inspector, too, had food for his wits. He had been called in the
previous night by a worried County Constabulary who had no desire to make
themselves ridiculous by making mountains out of molehills, but who found
themselves unable to explain away satisfactorily one very small, very
puzzling obstacle to their path. They had all viewed the obstacle, from the
Chief Constable down to the sergeant who had taken charge on the beach, had
been rude about each other’s theories, and had in the end agreed on only one
thing: that they wanted to push the responsibility on to someone else’s
shoulders. It was all very well to hang on to your own crime, and the