Free Run! by Patricia Wentworth Page B

traced him by the laundry-marks on his clothes, poor fellow, and his landlady told them he worked here. It’s only a form Mr. Parkinson going. Poor Mr. Jackson—it’s him all right. I wish I hadn’t said the things I did about him. Mr. Elliot, you won’t say anything, will you? I don’t want to get drawn into any inquests or things like that. You won’t say anything—will you?”
    James had an odd feeling of shock. He hadn’t liked Jackson very much. That seemed to make it worse. He said,
    â€œI don’t know, Daisy. I won’t say anything, but I think perhaps you ought to.”
    â€œWell, I’m not going to,” said Miss Callender with decision. “It won’t bring him back—will it? And what’s it going to look like me standing up in court and saying I listened in like that? And my picture in the Mail, and Lenny going off the deep end as likely as not! He’s always had a sort of jealous feeling about Mr. Jackson and you—as if a girl couldn’t be friendly without its meaning anything! And as sure as I got into a Court they’d have it out of me that what Mr. Jackson was waiting about for was the chance of taking me to the pictures. No, thank you, Mr. Elliot!”

XI
    The odd feeling of shock persisted. Mr. Parkinson came back a good deal upset in a pompous sort of way. The dead man was poor Jackson all right. He had been found yesterday morning as Miss Callender had said, but he had been dead some hours then—eight or nine at least, the police surgeon opined. There had been a heavy shower round about eleven that night, but the ground beneath the body was dry.
    â€œThere is some satisfaction in thinking that the poor fellow was killed instantly. Probably never knew he’d been hit,” said Mr. Parkinson. “Only what took him down into the country like that is what I don’t understand. Walking too—must have been to be run down in that way. I should never have put Jackson down as a walker myself.”
    Mr. Parkinson continued to hold forth, but James only heard the sound of his voice. His mind was occupied with a most insistent fact.
    Jackson never walked.
    The idea of his leaving town for the purpose of taking exercise in the dark along a country lane was purely fantastic. Even old Parkinson was finding it difficult to swallow. Somebody else could believe it if they liked, but to James it was a sheer impossibility. He followed Miss Callender into her little office, stood with his back against the door, and said abruptly,
    â€œWhat was the name of those people who telephoned—the firm of solicitors?”
    Miss Callender sat down because her knees were shaking.
    â€œNow, Mr. Elliot, you promised—”
    â€œIt was Hazeby, Meredith & Hazeby, wasn’t it?”
    Miss Calender’s large blue eyes were frightened. Her brightly made-up lips took an obstinate line.
    â€œI’m not saying anything—I told you I wasn’t.”
    â€œThat was what you did say.”
    He took pencil and paper off her table and wrote the names down. Then he stood back against the door again.
    â€œNow look here—these people rang up and Jackson took the call. But are you sure he was talking to them all the time? You told me you heard him making an appointment. Oh yes, you did, and you can’t get out of it now. And are you sure, absolutely dead certain sure, that he hadn’t stopped talking to Hazeby and got on to someone else by the time he was making that appointment?”
    â€œI’m not saying anything at all,” said Miss Callender firmly. “I’m not going to get drawn in—I told you I wasn’t.”
    â€œWell, I don’t believe you heard anything. Bits and scraps in the middle of your accounts—I don’t call that anything. If you heard one word, you imagined three. I didn’t really believe it when you told me. For one thing, I don’t believe you could