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- Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
"What are you looking for, sir?" he said. "Bloodstains." Scotland Yard is concerned with the murderer, or murderers, of the mysterious Bernard Pitt. The dead man is discovered with a false identity, courtesy of the many forged papers and documents found with him. The trail leads to France, where we discover why a French milliner chose to ride in a laundry basket, why the two American men are so interested in their wives' hat trimmings, and why it is so difficult for the French police to touch a criminal with high political connections. But Richardson discovers that the murder of Bernard Pitt was only an incident in the diabolical plot linking a network of criminals on both sides of the Channel. The Milliner's Hat Mystery, a novel which inspired Ian Fleming, was first published in 1937. This new edition, the first for many decades, includes an introduction by crime novelist Martin Edwards, author of acclaimed genre history The Golden Age of Murder. "Sir Basil Thomson is a past-master in the mysteries of Scotland Yard." Times Literary Supplement
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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Basil ThomsonThe Milliner’s Hat Mystery
“What are you looking for, sir?” he said.
“Bloodstains.”
Scotland Yard is concerned with the murderer, or murderers, of the mysterious Bernard Pitt. The dead man is discovered with a false identity, courtesy of the many forged papers and documents found with him.
The trail leads to France, where we discover why a French milliner chose to ride in a laundry basket, why the two American men are so interested in their wives’ hat trimmings, and why it is so difficult for the French police to touch a criminal with high political connections. But the murder of Bernard Pitt was only an incident in the diabolical plot linking a network of criminals on both sides of the Channel.
The Milliner’s Hat Mystery was first published in 1937. This new edition, the first for many decades, includes an introduction by crime novelist Martin Edwards, acclaimed author of genre history The Golden Age of Murder.
“Sir Basil Thomson is a past-master in the mysteries of Scotland Yard.” Times Literary Supplement
To my sister
ZOE HOYLE
In hope that she will forgive the use to which I have put her imposing row of barns
Contents
Introduction
SIR BASIL THOMSON’S stranger-than-fiction life was packed so full of incident that one can understand why his work as a crime novelist has been rather overlooked. This was a man whose CV included spells as a colonial administrator, prison governor, intelligence officer, and Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard. Among much else, he worked alongside the Prime Minister of Tonga (according to some accounts, he was the Prime Minister of Tonga), interrogated Mata Hari and Roger Casement (although not at the same time), and was sensationally convicted of an offence of indecency committed in Hyde Park. More than three-quarters of a century after his death, he deserves to be recognised for the contribution he made to developing the police procedural, a form of detective fiction that has enjoyed lasting popularity.
Basil Home Thomson was born in 1861 – the following year his father became Archbishop of York – and was educated at Eton before going up to New College. He left Oxford after a couple of terms, apparently as a result of suffering depression, and joined the Colonial Service. Assigned to Fiji, he became a stipendiary magistrate before moving to Tonga. Returning to England in 1893, he published South Sea Yarns, which is among the 22 books written by him which are listed in Allen J. Hubin’s comprehensive bibliography of crime fiction (although in some cases, the criminous content was limited).
Thomson was called to the Bar, but opted to become deputy governor of Liverpool Prison; he later served as governor of such prisons as Dartmoor and Wormwood Scrubs, and acted as secretary to the Prison Commission. In 1913, he became head of C.I.D., which acted as the enforcement arm of British military intelligence after war broke out. When the Dutch exotic dancer and alleged spy Mata Hari arrived in England in 1916, she was arrested and interviewed at length by Thomson at Scotland Yard; she was released, only to be shot the following year by a French firing squad. He gave an account of the interrogation in Queer People (1922).
Thomson was knighted, and given the additional responsibility of acting as Director of Intelligence at the Home Office, but in 1921, he was controversially ousted, prompting a heated debate in Parliament: according to The Times, “for a few minutes there was pandemonium”. The government argued that Thomson was at odds with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir William Horwood (whose own career ended with an ignominious departure from office seven years later), but it seems likely be that covert political machinations lay behind his removal. With many aspects of Thomson’s complex life, it is hard to disentangle fiction from fact.
Undaunted, Thomson resumed his writing career, and in 1925, he published Mr Pepper Investigates, a collection of humorous short mysteries, the most renowned of which is “The Vanishing of Mrs Fraser”. In the same year, he was arrested in Hyde Park for “committing an act in violation of public decency” with a young woman who gave her name as Thelma de Lava. Thomson protested his innocence, but in vain: his trial took place amid a blaze of publicity, and he was fined five pounds. Despite the fact that Thelma de Lava had pleaded guilty (her fine was reportedly paid by a photographer), Thomson launched an appeal, claiming that he was the victim of a conspiracy, but the court would have none of it. Was he framed, or the victim of entrapment? If so, was the reason connected with his past work in intelligence or crime solving? The answers remain uncertain, but Thomson’s equivocal responses to the police after being apprehended damaged his credibility.
Public humiliation of this kind would have broken a less formidable man, but Thomson, by now in his mid-sixties, proved astonishingly resilient. A couple of years after his trial, he was appointed to reorganise the Siamese police force, and he continued to produce novels. These included The Kidnapper (1933), which Dorothy L. Sayers described in a review for the Sunday Times as “not so much a detective story as a sprightly fantasia upon a detective theme.” She approved the fact that Thomson wrote “good English very amusingly”, and noted that “some of his characters have real charm.” Mr Pepper returned in The Kidnapper, but in the same year, Thomson introduced his most important character, a Scottish policeman called Richardson.
Thomson took advantage of his inside knowledge to portray a young detective climbing through the ranks at Scotland Yard. And Richardson’s rise is amazingly rapid: thanks to the fastest fast-tracking imaginable, he starts out as a police constable, and has become Chief Constable by the time of his seventh appearance – in a book published only four years after the first. We learn little about Richardson’s background beyond the fact that he comes of Scottish farming stock, but he is likeable as well as highly efficient, and his sixth case introduces him to his future wife. His inquiries take him – and other colleagues – not only to different parts of England but also across the Channel on more than one occasion: in The Case of the Dead Diplomat, all the action takes place in France. There is a zest about the stories, especially when compared with some of the crime novels being produced at around the same time, which is striking, especially given that all of them were written by a man in his seventies.
From the start of the series, Thomson takes care to show the team work necessitated by a criminal investigation. Richardson is a key connecting figure, but the importance of his colleagues’ efforts is never minimised in order to highlight his brilliance. In The Case of the Dead Diplomat, for instance, it is the trusty Sergeant Cooper who makes good use of his linguistic skills and flair for impersonation to trap the villains of the piece. Inspector Vincent takes centre stage in The Milliner’s Hat Mystery, with Richardson confined to the background. He is more prominent in A Murder is Arranged, but it is Inspector Dallas who does most of the leg-work.
Such a focus on police team-working is very familiar to present day crime fiction fans, but it was something fresh in the Thirties. Yet Thomson was not the first man with personal experience of police life to write crime fiction: Frank Froest, a legendary detective, made a considerable splash with his first novel, The Grell Mystery, published in 1913. Froest, though, was a career cop, schooled in “the university of life” without the benefit of higher education, who sought literary input from a journalist, George Dilnot, whereas Basil Thomson was a fluent and experienced writer whose light, brisk style is ideally suited to detective fiction, with its emphasis on entertainment. Like so many other detective novelists, his interest in “true crime” is occasionally apparent in his fiction, but although Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? opens with a murder scenario faintly reminiscent of the legendary Wallace case of 1930, the storyline soon veers off in a quite different direction.
Even before Richardson arrived on the scene, two accomplished detective novelists had created successful police series. Freeman Wills Crofts devised elaborate crimes (often involving ingenious alibis) for Inspector French to solve, and his books highlight the patience and meticulous work of the skilled police investigator. Henry Wade wrote increasingly ambitious novels, often featuring the Oxford-educated Inspector Poole, and exploring the tensions between police colleagues as well as their shared values. Thomson’s mysteries are less convoluted than Crofts’, and less sophisticated than Wade’s, but they make pleasant reading. This is, at least in part, thanks to little touches of detail that are unquestionably authentic – such as senior officers’ dread of newspaper criticism, as in The Dartmoor Enigma. No other crime writer, after all, has ever had such wide-ranging personal experience of prison management, intelligence work, the hierarchies of Scotland Yard, let alone a desperate personal fight, under the unforgiving glare of the media spotlight, to prove his innocence of a criminal charge sure to stain, if not destroy, his reputation.
Ingenuity was the hallmark of many of the finest detective novels written during “the Golden Age of murder” between the wars, and intricacy of plotting – at least judged by the standards of Agatha Christie, Anthony Berkeley, and John Dickson Carr – was not Thomson’s true speciality. That said, The Milliner’s Hat Mystery is remarkable for having inspired Ian Fleming, while he was working in intelligence during the Second World War, after Thomson’s death. In a memo to Rear Admiral John Godfrey, Fleming said: “The following suggestion is used in a book by Basil Thomson: a corpse dressed as an airman, with despatches in his pockets, could be dropped on the coast, supposedly from a parachute that has failed. I understand there is no difficulty in obtaining corpses at the Naval Hospital, but, of course, it would have to be a fresh one.” This clever idea became the basis for “Operation Mincemeat”, a plan to conceal the invasion of Italy from North Africa.
A further intriguing connection between Thomson and Fleming is that Thomson inscribed copies of at least two of the Richardson books to Kathleen Pettigrew, who was personal assistant to the Director of MI6, Stewart Menzies. She is widely regarded as the woman on whom Fleming based Miss Moneypenny, secretary to James Bond’s boss M – the Moneypenny character was originally called “Petty” Petteval. Possibly it was through her that Fleming came across Thomson’s book.
Thomson’s writing was of sufficiently high calibre to prompt Dorothy L. Sayers to heap praise on Richardson’s performance in his third case: “he puts in some of that excellent, sober, straightforward detective work which he so well knows how to do and follows the clue of a post-mark to the heart of a very plausible and proper mystery. I find him a most agreeable companion.” The acerbic American critics Jacques Barzun and Wendell Hertig Taylor also had a soft spot for Richardson, saying in A Catalogue of Crime that his investigations amount to “early police routine minus the contrived bickering, stomach ulcers, and pub-crawling with which later writers have masked poverty of invention and the dullness of repetitive questioning”.
Books in the Richardson series have been out of print and hard to find for decades, and their reappearance at affordable prices is as welcome as it is overdue. Now that Dean Street Press have republished all eight recorded entries in the Richardson case-book, twenty-first century readers are likely to find his company just as agreeable as Sayers did.
Martin Edwards
www.martinedwardsbooks.com
Chapter One
THE CORONER’S COURT at Oldbury was crowded, for the news had spread that the inquest about to be held was concerned with a death that was likely to prove more mysterious than any that the police had had to deal with within the memory of man. The coroner took his seat at his table and the hum of conversation was hushed. He called Leslie Griffith. A young man stood up and came forward.
“You are a clerk in the Local Government Board in London?”
“I am.”
“And on July 31st you drove your car into a barn for shelter from a violent thunderstorm.”
“Yes.”
“Were you alone in the car?”
“No, my friend Douglas Powell was with me.”
“What did you find in that barn?”
“We found the body of a man.”
“How was it lying?”
“Parallel with the left wall. I stumbled over it in getting out; in fact I fell over it. Owing to the thunderstorm it was as dark as night.”
“What did you do?”
“I picked myself up and called to my friend, and we went over together to the house opposite and explained to the owner what had happened and asked leave to use the telephone.”
“Did you telephone to the police?”
“No; Mr Howard, the owner of the house, telephoned to Dr Travers. He was afraid that in entering the barn we had knocked over his deaf gardener.”
“While you were waiting for the doctor did anyone touch the body?”
“We waited in the house until the doctor arrived and then we went back to the barn with him; we found the body lying just as we had left it.”
The coroner called Douglas Powell.
“Do you corroborate the evidence of the last witness?”
“Yes sir.”
“Were you at the wheel of your car?”
“I was.”
“Are you quite sure that you did not collide with the deceased and knock him down?”
“Quite sure. I was going at a foot’s pace and I should have felt the shock.”
Dr Henry Travers was the next witness.
“You were called by telephone to the barn in the grounds of Hatch Court? What did you find?”
“The dead body of a man aged between forty and fifty; I examined the body and found a bullet wound in the head. The body was cooling; death had occurred from three to four hours before I saw it.”
“Did you telephone to the police?”
“I did, and Inspector Miller came from Oldbury.”
“John Miller,” called the coroner, and a man in the uniform of a police inspector stood up.
“You were called by telephone to see a man who had been found shot through the head?”
“I was.”
“You concluded that he had been murdered?”
“Yes, because I found neither pistol nor rifle in the barn, nor any bullet hole in the walls or roof.”
“How do you account for the body being there?”
“It must have been brought there in a vehicle, most probably a car. The shoes were clean as if they had only just been put on.”
“Was a car seen by anyone?”
“Yes, by Peter Bury, the deaf gardener. He was sheltering from the storm in a tool shed and thought he saw a big car enter the barn. It was not until the storm was over that he found the little car belonging to Mr Powell in the barn and thought that the big one must have been a hallucination due to the lightning.”
“Has the body been identified?”
“Not yet, sir. I searched the pockets very carefully and made an inventory of everything I found in them. Besides the objects carried by smokers I found the sum of £10 16s. 9d. in notes and silver.”
“Did you notice anything of special importance in the things you found in the pockets?”
“Only that everything appeared to be brand new; even the notecase showed no sign of wear.”
“Were there no visiting cards?”
“Yes sir, quite a number with name and address complete and the telephone number in the corner.”
“Did that enable you to communicate with the deceased’s friends?”
“No sir. I telephoned to the address given on the cards, but the operator informed me that there was no such number and no such address.”
“Did you find any other document likely to help in identification?”
“Yes sir, a passport in the same name—John Whitaker.”
“The passport is being verified?”
“Yes sir, we are taking every possible step to have the body identified. My chief constable has been in telephonic communication with Scotland Yard and has asked for help. No doubt a senior officer will be detailed from the Yard to take charge of the enquiries.”
“In that case, gentlemen of the jury, I shall have no option but to adjourn the inquest until the police have had time to complete their enquiries. The inquest is adjourned. You will be notified in due course by my officer when it will be reopened.”
Inspector Miller spent a few minutes in going round among the witnesses and saying a word or two to each. As he was leaving the building a tall, good-looking man, who had been waiting by the door, stood up and addressed him.
“I must introduce myself, Mr Miller—Chief Inspector Vincent from the Yard. I was told to lose no time in coming down here and I was fortunate enough to arrive in time to hear a good part of the evidence given at the inquest.”
“I’m very glad you’ve come, Mr Vincent. You see the difficulty that I am up against. This man was shot either in some other locality or in a car— ‘taken for a ride,’ in fact, as they say in America.”
“Do you think that the man was deliberately trying to hide his identity, or that his assailants were doing that for him and for themselves?”
“So far there has been nothing to give the answer to that question. Until we know his identity it is useless to speculate about the motive for the murder.”
“May I ask what steps you have already taken for establishing his identity?”
“The usual steps—searching the list of missing persons in the police publications. I have a mass of papers at the office, which of course are at your service. My car is here.” He made a signal to the uniformed driver of his car and, though the distance to police headquarters was barely half a mile, they jumped in.
“I brought a sergeant down with me,” said Vincent. “We shall find him at your office.”
“Is he the man who usually works with you?”
“Yes. Detective-Sergeant Walker.”
“Then I feel sure that he is a live wire.”
Miller had been taking stock of his companion and had decided that he belonged to a type of detective that was new to him. To begin with, his accent was not that of the ordinary police officer. It was what, for want of a better adjective, was described as an educated accent. Miller was curious to know what had brought a man of university education into the police, but of course he could not put so personal a question to an officer of this rank. He did go so far as to ask him whether he knew Superintendent Richardson. Vincent at once rose to the bait.
“You have deprived him of a step in rank. He is now my chief constable, and he is one of the few promoted from the ranks whose promotion has given lively satisfaction throughout the whole service. I, myself, am proud to be working under him.”
They had reached the police station. Inspector Miller invited Vincent into his room where they found Sergeant Walker awaiting them.
“There, Chief Inspector, that pile of papers is for you to look through. You will find reports from a number of my officers about missing persons, but so far they have produced nothing.”
“When was the body found?”
“Only the day before yesterday—Saturday. You will see that we have wasted no time.”
“The persons I should like to see first are those two young men who found the body. Where are they to be found?”
Miller looked a little crestfallen. “The fact is, Chief Inspector, that I allowed them to continue their journey to Cornwall, after taking their addresses, of course. They promised to return on receipt of a telegram if they were wanted. You will find their statements on the top of those papers and I don’t think that they are able to give any further information. That is why I let them go.”
“Have you found any further trace of the big car which the deaf gardener thought he had seen during the thunderstorm?”
“No. He appears to have been the only man in the village who saw it and I doubt whether his evidence can be relied upon. You know the type of witness who comes forward with a story, and then when he finds that the police attach importance to it he embroiders it with all kinds of detail drawn from his imagination.”
“I know the type, but I think that he must be the first witness that I interview. The question is whether I should see him here or, less formally, on his own ground at Hatch Court. I think that Hatch Court would be best because I could make an inspection of the barn at the same time.”
“It’ll take us no time at all to get to Hatch Court if you will jump into the car again, Mr Vincent. Would you like your sergeant to come with us?”
“Yes, because he’s accustomed to taking down notes as we go. What has the owner of Hatch Court to say to the irruption of police on to his premises?”
“Mr Howard? Oh, he’s given us a free hand. We needn’t even trouble to ask for him. As long as he knows in due course what conclusion we come to, he’ll ask no questions.”
“So much the better. The only member of the staff we want to see is that deaf gardener and we can see him in the barn itself.”
They had no difficulty in finding Peter Bury— indeed, since the thunderstorm and his supposed hallucination he seemed to have been doing little more than watch the barn from some secret hiding place for some other strange occurrence. Miller beckoned to him to approach. He shambled towards the two police officers with a hesitating gait.
Vincent called him into the barn and, using his two hands as a megaphone, shouted: “I want you to take us to where you were standing when you saw that car outside the barn.” He had to repeat the question in a louder tone before intelligence dawned in the old man’s face. He touched Vincent on the arm, making a gesture towards the garden. Vincent followed him.
Arrived outside a little tool shed, the old gardener conducted his part of the conversation in dumb show, intimating that they were standing on the very spot from which he saw the car swing round into the barnyard. Then he found his voice.
“An old friend of mine once got struck by lightning and had to go all doubled up for the rest of his life. I’ve been shy of lightning ever since. That’s why I was sheltering.”
Vincent’s voice rang out: “Did—you—see—the car—go—into—the barn?”
“I saw it swing round from the lane into the yard and I said to meself: ‘You’ll never get a car as big as that into the barn, if that’s what you’re after.’ And then the lightning flashed again and I took cover.”
“And when you came out from your cover you found a little car in the barn.”
“That’s right, though how I could have made such a mistake beats me—taking a little car for a big one.”
“Thank you, Peter. If we want you again we’ll come and find you.” Turning to Miller, Vincent said: “Now let us go to the barn.”
The floor of the barn was covered deep in dust. It showed clearly the wheel marks of a small car, and Miller pointed out a shallow depression in the dust which he said had been made by the dead body and a medley of footprints all round it.
“As you see, there are no marks here of any big car having entered. These wheel marks were made by the car belonging to those two young men.”
“Yes, and of course the footprints explain themselves. Now, assuming that Peter Bury did see a big car stop outside the barn, let us reconstruct the scene. The car drew up here, but in that heavy storm all wheel marks would naturally be washed away. Peter Bury would not have seen what happened when the car stopped, but obviously two men must have been required to carry the dead body into the barn; their proceedings were masked by the car. Then what happened? The men returned to their seats, the car swung round in this direction in the act of turning to leave the yard. It was rather a sharp turn for a big car to get round without manoeuvring.” Vincent appeared to be talking to himself rather than to his companion, whom he left and walked rapidly over to the low wall of the yard. Miller could not help admiring the quickness and agility of his movements. It was as if he was on wires. He stopped at the low wall and stooped. “Yes, here we are,” he said over his shoulder; “it was too sharp a turn for a big car. Look at this streak of black. That is car varnish from one of the wings. The driver was in a hurry—he didn’t stop to back—stripped the wing clean of varnish and, no doubt, made a biggish dent in it. That will be something to go by in hunting for the car.”
“None of the servants saw a big car,” objected Miller, “and, as you see, their windows look out this way.”
“They do, but have you ever seen a house full of maids in a thunderstorm? They run to cover, preferably under a bed or in a linen closet. The storm was a stroke of luck for our murderers.”
Vincent was silent as they walked back to Miller’s car. When they had taken their seats he asked: “Have you made any enquiries at garages down the Bath Road about a car with a dinted offside wing? Garage hands notice these things.”
“Not yet,” replied Miller half apologetically. “We had so little to go upon.”
Vincent relapsed into another silence and then he said: “If the man was shot in the car there must be a bullet mark somewhere at the level of a man’s head. That theory might be worth pursuing.”
Miller was spared from answering this remark by the sight of a small car drawn up before the police headquarters.
“Hallo!” he said. “What’s this?”
He was not long left in doubt. A young man, whom Vincent recognized as having been one of the witnesses at the inquest, jumped out of the car and made a sign to Miller to pull up.
“We have something that will interest you, Inspector, and we brought it back from a garage a few miles down the road for you to see.”
“What is it?”
“A car window with what looks like a bullet hole clean through it.”
Chapter Two
THE THREE police officers jumped out of their car.
“Where is this window?” asked Miller.
“We took it into the police station and left it with your station sergeant.”
Miller hurried into the building, followed by the others. Griffith constituted himself showman. The window was standing propped again the wall.
“Now you can see what a car window looks like when it’s had a bullet through it.”
“Yes,” said Vincent; “there’s been dirty work at the crossroads. Do you see what started the fracture—that round hole with little cracks radiating from it in every direction. This is no ordinary break: that window was broken by a pistol shot. Where did you find it?”
“At a garage about four miles down the Bath Road. Here is their card. They told us that the window came out of a sixteen-horse Daimler. Here’s its number. It was quite by chance that we went into the garage at all; one of our plugs was missing fire badly and it was a case of any port in a storm. While they were changing the plug, Powell began poking about and saw this window propped up against the wall. He spotted at once that it was no ordinary break and after a little difficulty we got the garage people to let us have it for a bob.”
“Did they give you a description of the driver?” asked Vincent.
“No, because we thought that if we started questioning they might take us for detectives and shut up like oysters. We did find out that the car came in on Saturday. I would offer you a seat in our little bus if there was room and run you down to the garage.”
“Thank you very much, but I weigh over twelve stone and I should prove to be the last straw for your little car. Happily Inspector Miller has a car, and if you will wait until I’ve sent my sergeant back to London with this broken window we can start whenever you like.”
“If you like to give me a seat in Inspector Miller’s car I can act as your guide to the garage and let my friend follow us. It’ll save time.”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Vincent; “I’ll be ready in three minutes.”
He was as good as his word; in three minutes he was at the wheel and had started up the engine. As soon as they were clear of the traffic, Griffith began to talk: he was prone to conversation.
“You’ll excuse my curiosity, but I don’t think you can belong to the county constabulary.”
“No, I come from further afield.”
“I felt sure you did: you must be from Scotland Yard. They’ve sent you down to take charge of the case. You must be one of the big four.”
“You mean the big four of newspaper notoriety? I’m Chief Inspector Vincent.”
“You’re starting in this case with practically no clue at all, I gathered from the evidence at the inquest —not even the man’s identity.”
“That is so.”
“I’ve often envied you your job when I read of criminal cases in the papers; it must be an exciting kind of life.”
Vincent smiled. “It’s all right when there are exciting episodes, but much of the work is the dreary business of elimination.”
“Elimination?”
“Yes, because we suffer from too much rather than too little help from the public. In any sensational crime letters pour in from well-meaning people, not only in this country but abroad, and one cannot afford to neglect any of them for fear that there may be a grain of wheat among the chaff. The discouraging part of the job lies in the sifting of this mass of information.”
“It must require a lot of patience.”
“Yes, it does. Sometimes one gets so discouraged that it is all one can do to carry on.”
“The garage is only about a couple of hundred yards from here. I suppose you’d like to conduct your enquiry alone?”
“Not at all, but you will want to stop your friend when he arrives and you might look after my car while waiting for him.”
Griffith assented with a sigh and watched the lithe figure enter the garage.
Vincent asked for the foreman, who was found in a pit under a car, busily engaged in examining the pinions in the gear box.
“You’re wanted, Harry,” a mechanic called down to him.
“Who wants me?”
“The police.” And then in a hoarse whisper the youth added: “It’s a blooming ’tec from Scotland Yard, so he says.”
The foreman, a youth little older than his own mechanics, crawled out of his lair and faced Vincent, wiping a smear of oil from his countenance with a swab of cotton waste.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you in your work, foreman, but I want some information about that car that came in with a broken window two days ago. How many men were there in the car?”
“Two, I think it was. It was two, wasn’t it, Charlie?”
“Yes; there was the fellow with his arm in a sling and the other bloke that kept looking at his watch.”
“Did they say where they were going?”
“Oh, they made no secret about that. They said that they were going to Cornwall.”
As the foreman turned back to his work the young mechanic became confidential. “If you are wanting information about those two men I can tell you something. When I was tuning up their car and they didn’t know I could hear them I heard them talking about a motorboat that they were to catch at Newquay. I could see that the feller that kept looking at his watch was in a great stew about being late. ‘God knows,’ he said, ‘what we’ll do if he’s gone off without us,’ and the other one said: ‘He’s swine enough to do anything.’ Then one of them caught sight of me and nudged the other, and they dried up.”
Having gleaned all possible information from the garage, Vincent returned to his car. He found that Griffith’s companion had arrived in his tiny overloaded conveyance and the two young men were talking.
“Ah, here comes the chief inspector,” said Griffith. “Now we shall be free to go on.”
