‘I say, look here, Paul,’ Inspector Merritt started, with some slight embarrassment and no little alarm, ‘I hope I haven’t butted in on a private little—’
Temple hastened to relieve him. ‘No, of course not, Charles. Of course not. How’s the brandy?’ he asked inconsequently, both to change the conversation and to try to forget the alarm he suddenly felt for Steve Trent’s safety.
‘Fine!’ answered the inspector, in no way discouraged. ‘She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, yes, she is rather. Surprised you’ve never met her before. She’s a reporter on The Evening Post.’
‘Did you say her name was Trent?’
‘Yes, Steve Trent,’ answered Temple. ‘At least, that’s the name she works under on the newspaper. Her real name is Harvey. Louise Harvey. She’s the sister of Superintendent Harvey, the fellow who was—’
Inspector Merritt looked startled. ‘Sister!’ he exclaimed with surprise.
‘Yes. Why, what’s the matter?’
‘Oh, nothing, only…only I never knew Harvey had a sister.’ The inspector paused to assimilate this new fact. ‘Why wasn’t she at the inquest?’
‘She was, but she didn’t give evidence,’ replied Temple. ‘Well, any news?’ he asked at length.
‘I’ve had the inn watched,’ Inspector Merritt replied. ‘Everything seems to be above-board as far as I can make out. I checked up on that “Green Finger” story. The inn did used to be known as “The Green Finger” – but that’s certainly going back some years.’
‘I still think there’s something funny about that inn, Charles,’ Paul Temple replied. ‘I don’t know what it is, but I intend to find out.’
Merritt looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I think there’s something there too,’ he said slowly.
‘By the way,’ continued Temple, ‘you might be interested to know that the Commissioner wants to see me.’
‘He does!’ exclaimed Merritt, obviously surprised. ‘Well, that’s certainly good news.’
‘Of course, he may only want to ask me a few questions about this business with Harvey. On the other hand—’
Merritt suddenly interrupted him.
‘Oh, just a minute, Paul!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have got a little news which might interest you. One of my men went into “The Little General” yesterday morning, and on coming out, he bumped into a fellow known as Skid Tyler.’
‘Skid Tyler,’ repeated Temple, puckering his brows.
‘Yes. Know anything about him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Temple thoughtfully. ‘Skid Tyler …Skid—’ Suddenly he jumped up. ‘Yes, I’ve got him!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘He used to be a driver at Brooklands. He was warned off the track in 1930 and served a term of imprisonment in 1931 for share-pushing…or was it ’32? I’m not sure which.’
‘Well, that’s the fellow anyway.’
‘I wonder what he’s doing at “The Little General”,’ said Paul Temple thoughtfully.
‘Yes – that’s what I wondered. I sent a man back to trail him, but the idiot bungled the job, and Skid disappeared.’
Paul Temple put down his pipe at which he had been puffing steadily for the last half-hour, and took his cigarette holder from the mantelpiece. Oddly enough Temple very rarely smoked cigars although he always had a selection in stock for his visitors, and he now passed a box over to Inspector Merritt. They were Brazilian cigars— ‘Havana tobacco, but grown in Brazil,’ Paul Temple explained to him; ‘I think they’re much better than plain Havana cigars. Hope you like them.’ Merritt took one, peeled off the thin wooden covering which protected it, cut the end off and lit it. Then he settled back into his comfortable armchair.
‘Did you check up on Miss Parchment?’ Temple asked him at last.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘She’s all right as far as I can make out. Retired schoolmistress. Lives alone in a small flat near the Tottenham Court Road. Passionately fond of reading and old English inns. Seems a hell of a life to me – but it sounds genuine enough.’
Temple walked up and down the room, occasionally flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette.
‘Somehow,’ he said at last, ‘I feel sure that in some peculiar way, Miss Parchment fits into all this mystery about “The Little General”…Harvey’s murder…and the jewel robberies.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how…but I’m sure she does.’
‘Well, your hunches aren’t often wrong, Paul,’ Merritt replied, ‘but I fail to see how an innocent old dame with a passion for—’
The telephone ringing outside cut short his sentence. Temple got up and with an apology left the room. Pryce was probably some distance away downstairs in the servants’ quarters, and there seemed little need to bring him up while the call was in all probability one he would have to answer.
After a moment or two he came back into the room with the instrument in his hands, a long extension cord trailing behind him. ‘It’s for you, Charles,’ he explained, putting the instrument down on the low table. With a word of thanks the inspector picked up the receiver.
‘Hello! Yes, speaking! Oh, hello, Sergeant. Yes…yes—’ He looked up at Temple significantly.
‘Yes…Go on…When did it happen?…Good lord! Yes, yes, of course…You’d better pick me up here. Yes, goodbye.’
Throughout the conversation, Inspector Merritt had rapidly been growing more and more restless. Now, as he replaced the receiver, he jumped out of his chair and almost rushed up to Temple who was standing with his back to the fire.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Temple quickly.
‘They’ve done it again.’
‘You mean…?’
‘It’s Leamington this time. Frobisher’s, of Regent Street. £14,000 worth of stuff.’
Temple whistled. ‘By Timothy!’ he exclaimed.
‘There’ll be hell to pay over this,’ went on the inspector irritably.
‘When did it happen?’
‘About an hour ago. Practically in broad daylight. That smash sounds a dam’ funny business to me.’
‘What smash?’
‘A lorry crashed into a dress shop which was next door to the jeweller’s,’ Merritt explained. ‘There was such a devil of a row over the smash that no one took the slightest notice of what was happening next door.’
‘Sounds like a cover,’ said Temple thoughtfully.
‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Both were too busy assimilating news of this latest development. Inspector Merritt’s first spasm of sharp excitement had gone and he sat down again in his armchair, and relit the cigar he had been too busy to continue smoking.
Suddenly Temple turned. His face was set in an expression of grim determination.
‘Charles. Tell them to hold that lorry driver.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, by Timothy,’ said Temple, ‘I’ll bet a fiver it’s Skid Tyler.’