Marden appeared to be a man of about thirty years of age. Sir Clinton noticed that he carried himself well and did not seem to have lost his head in the excitement of the past hour. When he spoke, it was without any appreciable accent; and he seemed to take pains to be perfectly clear in his evidence. Sir Clinton, by an almost imperceptible gesture, handed over the examination of the valet to the Inspector. Armadale pulled out his notebook once more.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Thomas Marden.”
“How long have you been in Mr Foss’s service?”
“Since he arrived here from America, about three months ago.”
“How did he come to engage you?”
“Advertisement.”
“You knew nothing about him before that?”
“Nothing.”
“Where was he living then?”
“At 474a Gunner’s Mansions, S.W. It’s a service flat.”
“He still has that flat?”
“Yes.”
“How did he spend his time?”
The valet seemed astonished by the question.
“I don’t know. None of my business.”
Inspector Armadale was not to be turned aside.
“You must have known whether he stayed in the flat or went out regularly at fixed times.”
Marden seemed to see what was wanted.
“You mean, did he go out to an office every day? No, he came and went just when it suited him.”
“Had he much correspondence?”
“Letters? Just about what one might expect.”
The Inspector looked up gloomily. So far, he had not got much to go upon.
“What do you mean by: ‘Just what one might expect?’”
“He got some letters every day, sometimes one or two, sometimes half a dozen. Just what one might expect.”
“Have you any idea whether they were business letters or merely private correspondence?”
Marden seemed annoyed by the question.
“How should I know?” he demanded, stiffly. “It’s not my business to pry into my employer’s affairs.”
“It’s your business to read the addresses on the envelopes to see that the postman hasn’t left wrong letters. Did you notice nothing when you did that? Were the addresses mainly typewritten or written by hand?”
“He got bills and advertisements with the address typewritten—like most of us. And one or two letters came addressed by hand.”
“Did you notice the stamps?”
“Some were American, of course.”
“So it comes to this,” Inspector Armadale concluded, “he was not carrying on a big business from the flat; most of his letters were ordinary bills and so forth; but he had some private correspondence as well; and part of his correspondence was with America? Why couldn’t you tell us that straight off, instead of having it dragged out of you?”
The valet was quite unruffled by the Inspector’s tone.
“I hadn’t put two and two together the way you do. They were just letters to me. I didn’t think anything about them.”
Inspector Armadale showed no appreciation of this indirect tribute to his powers.
“Had he many visitors?”
“Not at the flat. He may have met his friends in the restaurant downstairs for all I know.”
“Do you remember any visitors at the flat?”
“No.”
The Inspector seemed to recollect something he had missed.
“Did he get any telegrams?”
“Yes.”
“Frequently?”
“Fairly often.”
“You’ve no idea of the contents of these wires?”
Marden obviously took offence at this.
“You asked me before if I pried into his affairs; and I told you I didn’t.”
“How often did these wires arrive?” the Inspector demanded, taking no notice of Marden’s annoyance.
“Perhaps once or twice a week.”
“Did he bet?” the Inspector inquired, as though it had just struck him that the telegrams might thus be explained.
“I know nothing about that.”
Armadale went off on a fresh tack.
“Did he seem to be well off for money?”
“He paid me regularly, if that’s what you mean.”
“He had a car and a chauffeur, hadn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Were they his own or simply hired?”
“I don’t know. Not my business.”
“The Gunner’s Mansions flats are expensive?”
“They get the name of it. I don’t know what he paid.”
“You don’t seem to have had much curiosity, Marden.”
“I’m not paid for being curious.”
The Inspector put down his pencil and reflected for a moment or two.
“Have you any idea of his address in America?”
“Not my business.”
“Did he write many letters?”
“I couldn’t say. None of my business.”
“You can at least say whether he gave you any to post.”
“He didn’t.”
“Have you anything else you can tell us about him?”
Marden seemed to think carefully before he replied.
“All his clothes were split new.”
“Anything else?”
“He carried a revolver—I mean an automatic.”
“What size was it?”
“About that length.”
The valet indicated the length approximately with his hands, and winced slightly as he moved the bandaged one.
“H’m! A ·38 or a ·45,” Armadale commented. “Too big for a ·22, anyway.”
He took up his pencil again.
“Now come to this afternoon. Begin at lunchtime and go on.”
Marden reflected for a moment, as though testing his memory.
“I’d better begin before lunch. Mr Foss came to me with a parcel in his hand and asked me to take it over to Hincheldene post office. He wanted it registered. He offered to let me take the car if I wished; but I preferred to walk over. I like the fresh air.”
