He couldn’t.

He stood a chance of proving that Roger had been pretending to be someone else.

“Why not give up trying. King?” Hansell asked. “We’ve caught you with everything.”

“Then you ought to be happy.”

“I’ll be more satisfied when I know why you killed that kid upstairs.”

“I’ll be more cheerful when you start looking for the murderer. Give me a cigarette, will you?” He always kept his cigarettes in his hip pocket and couldn’t reach it with his free hand.

“No, I don’t smoke them. I wouldn’t give you a cigarette if I did. Harris!” Hansell raised his voice, and the door opened at once. “Go through his pockets and put everything from them on the table,” Hansell ordered. “You stay here with them. Lister.” So the other big constable was named Lister.

Hansell went out, and Harris began to go through Roger’s pockets. Out of the right-hand jacket pocket he took a slim gold cigarette-case; not Roger’s. From the waistcoat, a lighter, watch, and diary—none of them Roger’s. He was used to the idea now—that his assailant had taken everything out of his pockets and put someone else’s stuff in its place.

P.C. Lister made a note of everything, calling it out aloud as Harris placed it on the table.

Hansell came in.

“Finished?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harris.

“Anything marked with ‘R.W.’?”

“No, but several things have ‘A.K.’ on them, sir.”

“Good enough,” said Hansell. “Sergeant Drayton is outside, and he’ll take you and the prisoner down to the station. He can be tidied up, but before that I want you to scrape some of that dried blood off his face, and keep it. You can give him something to eat, and let him have a packet of cigarettes but no matches—when he wants a light, he will have to ask for it. Don’t let the Press get at him. Take him in the back way, and see that he doesn’t see anyone except our people.”

“Yes, sir.”