I’m not meaning just the idle rich, the people who give big parties, and so on, I mean those that have had it born and bred in them for generations that nobody else’s opinion counts but their own. I’ve always found the upper classes the same—fearless, truthful and sometimes extraordinarily foolish.”
“This is a very interesting lecture, Battle. I suppose you’ll be writing your Reminiscences one of these days. They ought to be worth reading too.”
The detective acknowledged the suggestion with a smile, but said nothing.
“I’d rather like to ask you one question,” continued Anthony. “Did you connect me at all with the Staines affair? I fancied, from your manner, that you did.”
“Quite right. I had a hunch that way. But nothing definite to go upon. Your manner was very good, if I may say so, Mr. Cade. You never overdid the carelessness.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Anthony. “I’ve a feeling that ever since I met you you’ve been laying little traps for me. On the whole I’ve managed to avoid falling into them, but the strain has been acute.”
Battle smiled grimly.
“That’s how you get a crook in the end, sir. Keep him on the run, to and fro, turning and twisting. Sooner or later, his nerve goes, and you’ve got him.”
“You’re a cheerful fellow, Battle. When will you get me, I wonder?”
“Plenty of rope, sir,” guoted the superintendent, “plenty of rope.”
“In the meantime,” said Anthony, “I am still the amateur assistant?”
“That’s it, Mr. Cade.”
“Watson to your Sherlock, in fact?”
“Detective stories are mostly bunkum,” said Battle unemotionally. “But they amuse people,” he added, as an afterthought. “And they’re useful sometimes.”
“In what way?” asked Anthony curiously.
“They encourage the universal idea that the police are stupid. When we get an amateur crime, such as a murder, that’s very useful indeed.”
Anthony looked at him for some minutes in silence. Battle sat quite still, blinking now and then, with no expression whatsoever on his square placid face. Presently he rose.
157
