‘Tell me, Harvey,’ asked Temple, ‘did you see the night watchman on the Birmingham job, the fellow who died?’
‘Yes,’ Harvey replied. ‘His name was Rogers. He was an ex-con.’
‘Did he say anything before—’
‘I only saw him for a few seconds,’ the detective interrupted; ‘the doctor wouldn’t let me stay any longer. But whilst I was there, he said very quietly, “The Green Finger.”…At the time, I thought the poor devil was delirious and talking nonsense. Now, however, I’m not so sure.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, about a month ago, Dale fished a fellow out of the Thames. A man by the name of Snipey Jackson. He was wanted in connection with the Leicester job. The poor devil was practically gone when they dragged him into the boat – but Dale is absolutely certain he said exactly the same words as the night watchman.’
‘The Green Finger—’ repeated Temple quietly; then suddenly he looked up. ‘Where are you staying, Harvey?’
Harvey explained that he had booked a room at ‘The Little General’, a small inn about two miles from Bramley Lodge.
‘Don’t be silly, old boy!’ laughed Temple. ‘You must stay here. We’ll pop round to the inn for your luggage.’
Pryce was sent to start the car, and ten minutes later the two men were swinging their way down the drive, the brilliant headlamps of Temple’s long black coupé cleaving a passage between the great beeches that flanked the drive.
There was no great hurry and Temple did not drive fast. It was fairly cold and he kept the roof of the car closed, although both men had opened their windows and were savouring the keen night air. An exhilarating experience after the warm confinement of the drawing-room. Although the inn was only some two miles away, it was almost ten minutes before they arrived. Neither said very much beyond a non-committal word or so about the rabbits which scurried out, drawn by the car’s headlamps, or about the smooth, fast running of Temple’s car and the easy way she crested the long slope leading up to ‘The Little General’.
Harvey got out of the car alone, explaining that he would only be absent long enough for him to collect his bags and break the news of his sudden departure to the innkeeper. Temple remained in the car, drawing away at his great briar. He heard the door of the inn close, and fancied he heard Harvey talking.
Two or three minutes passed by. Then Temple heard footsteps crunching in the gravel by the roadside. Somebody was approaching the car from the back. Through the driving mirror he could see a man gradually coming nearer. He turned round and recognized the burly figure of Ben Stewart, owner of Battington Farm, and a near neighbour of Temple’s. He stopped at the window of the car.
‘’Ello, Mr. Temple. What be you doing ’ere this time o’ night?’
‘Hello, Ben!’ replied Temple. ‘I’m just waiting for a friend of mine. How’s the farm?’
The two chatted for a little while about the farm, market prices, and foot-and-mouth disease. Although Temple lived in the country, he knew little more about farming than the average townsman, but he was genuinely interested in it, as he was in almost everything else, and Ben Stewart was one of many who appreciated an attentive audience.
Finally the farmer accepted one of Temple’s best cigars. ‘Sure make the house smell proper Christmassy, this will!’ he chuckled, and vanished into the night.
Temple had switched the car lights off and for a moment or two sat peering ahead into the darkness, vainly endeavouring to follow the farmer’s path. He wondered vaguely why Harvey should be so long. It was actually getting a little colder, he thought, and closed the windows of the car.
The only light came from the inn. Two of the windows were lit up. One that was evidently the window of the bar parlour, next to the door, and one upstairs. The crescent of the moon just revealed through the mist the existence of the poplars by the side of the road.
Certainly time Harvey was down with those bags, thought Temple.
A sudden piercing shriek cut into his thoughts. A moment later, the inn door was flung open and the excited figure of little Horace Daley, the innkeeper, appeared. For an instant he stood still, silhouetted against the brilliant light from within. Then, with a second cry of astonishment, he darted forward.
‘I say, Mister!’ he started, his voice almost unintelligible in the sudden pitch of overwhelming emotion, ‘is that fellow a friend of yours, the chap who came into the inn about…’
‘Yes,’ Temple cut him short. ‘What’s happened?’
‘My Gawd, it’s awful. It’s awful!’
‘What’s happened?’ repeated Temple, a sudden note of apprehension in his voice.
‘He’s shot himself!’
Temple looked at the innkeeper through the darkness. There was a queer look in his eyes.
‘Shot—himself.’ he repeated slowly. ‘No! No! That can’t be true!’
The innkeeper began to wave his arms in a frenzy of excitement.
‘I tell you, he’s shot ’imself. I was—’
Abruptly Temple cut short his flow of words.
‘We’d better go inside,’ he said quietly.
Temple closed the door of the bar parlour softly behind him and looked down at the lifeless body of Superintendent Harvey. A trickle of blood flowed from the back of his head. In his left hand he still clasped the revolver. For a few seconds Temple stood there in silence. Then he knelt down to make a more hopeful examination.
It was obviously too late to do anything, however, and after a little while he stood up and began to look around.
The door he had just entered was in the corner of a room about twenty feet long and fifteen or so deep. Just to the right of the door was the window from which had come the light Temple had seen from the car.
Along the far end was the bar counter, with a number of glasses, two siphons, an ashtray, a bowl of potato crisps, and an advertisement for Devonshire cider. Behind the bar counter were stacked a number of beer barrels. There were also shelves for the usual bottles of spirits and a table for the till. The whole comprised a scene typical of a little country estaminet. At the end of the counter, away from the road, was a flap. Behind it was a door leading to an inner room, apparently the Daleys’ living-room. Another door in the wall behind the counter opened on to a little courtyard behind the house.
Ancient high-backed oak benches and tables provided seating accommodation in the little parlour. On the floor between them lay two or three spittoons, clean and well-filled with sand. A thin layer of sawdust coated the floor. There was indeed nothing in the parlour to distinguish ‘The Little General’ from a thousand other inn parlours in the country, save the quietness and lack of custom of which the Cockney innkeeper continually complained.
Daley watched nervously as Temple took in the various details. Eventually he could restrain himself no longer, and exclaimed: ‘Whatever made him do it? He came in ’ere as large as life. Walked across to—’
‘Please!’ said Temple quietly; then, after a pause: ‘Are you on the telephone?’
Daley led the way into the little hall, then upstairs to a coin instrument, seemingly intended for the occupants of the three spare rooms.
Temple lifted the receiver.