Free My Name is Michael Sibley by John Bingham Page A

gambling?”
    “Yes; he was,” I answered. “He had a couple of bets or more every day.”
    “So that might explain his recent financial improvement?”
    “It might. But it’s funny he didn’t mention it to me. Most people like to talk about it when they win a packet on a horse.”
    The Inspector smiled. He had not brought his file along with him. He just sat watching me without blinking his tawny-coloured eyes. His arms were stretched along the side of the chair, and he looked relaxed, but I knew he wasn’t.
    “Mr. Prosset was perhaps the sort of person who didn’t tell people everything he did?”
    “Perhaps,” I replied.
    “And that wouldn’t exactly make him unique, would it, sir?”
    “No.” It seemed a pointless sort of remark, and I waited for the next question. But he sat looking at me for a few seconds saying nothing.
    “No, it wouldn’t, Mr. Sibley,” he remarked at length.
    “Wouldn’t what?”
    “I said that perhaps Mr. Prosset was the sort of person who did not tell everybody everything he did, and that that did not make him unique. For instance, sir, it would have been a bit more helpful if you yourself had told us that you had cancelled a proposed visit to Mr. Prosset the day before he was killed. There was no need to hush that up, sir. That was silly, sir, if I may say so, and might have caused us a lot of trouble one way and another. Why didn’t you tell us, sir? There was nothing to worry about.”
    I leaned forward and said quickly, “I know there was nothing to worry about, and as a matter of fact I meant to tell you. But we only had a comparatively short talk, and just when I had it on the tip of my tongue to tell you, you asked me some question about his relatives. I told you about his family in Ireland, and then you asked another question, and I forgot about the other thing completely.”
    “You forgot about it completely?”
    “Yes.”
    “It was a funny thing to forget, wasn’t it, sir?”
    “Things like that can easily happen.”
    He took no notice of the remark. “Your friend Mr. Prosset gets killed, sir. You must have thought that if you had been there he would be alive today. You must have regretted not going. Yet you forget to tell us. It was a funny thing to forget, sir, wasn’t it?”
    “Maybe it was, if you put it like that. Yes, I agree, it was, but it’s the truth.”
    As he said nothing, I added, “You remember asking me about his relatives, don’t you?”
    “Oh, I remember that all right, Mr. Sibley. But I’m not a thought-reader, you know. I can’t tell what was in your mind when, as you say, I interrupted your intentions. I can’t tell that, can I, sir? I’m not psychic, you know. I can only go by what you say out loud.”
    “I know that, but what I’ve told you now is the truth. I meant to tell you, and I just forgot, that’s all. It’s natural, isn’t it? I mean, in a way.”
    But he wasn’t finished with the point. He pressed it again.
    “But you agree it was a funny sort of thing to forget?”
    “Well, in a way yes, and in a way no. One gets a bit keyed up when a couple of police officers come and interrogate you. It’s natural.”
    “Who was interrogating you, sir?” said the Inspector mildly.
    “Well, you were.”
    “I wasn’t interrogating you, sir. I was just having a friendly talk about your old friend Mr. Prosset. I wasn’t bullying you, was I, sir? I wasn’t bullying Mr. Sibley, was I, Sergeant?”
    The Sergeant looked up and smiled. “Not as far as I could see, sir.”
    “Of course you weren’t,” I said hastily. “I never said you were. I only said—”
    “Look, sir,” interrupted the Inspector, “here’s your pal Mr. Prosset dead as a doornail. Murdered, perhaps. And you were going down to stay the very weekend he was found dead. You didn’t go. Well, why should you have gone if you didn’t want to? Nobody is going to suggest you should have gone. Nobody is going to blame you for his death because you changed