Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic by John Rowland

from the Oxford Circus end of the street, and drawing a blank at each one. Some of the managers looked at him in amazement, but most of them were quite courteous, announcing that, though they had no one named Moss on their staff, it was possible that one of their competitors a little farther along might know more about him.
    It was all very trying. Although they all did their best to be helpful, Cunningham was getting almost desperate, and was thinking that the elusive Mr. Moss had lied to the caretaker of the block of Bloomsbury flats, and was really engaged in some other—perhaps some less respectable—profession, when he struck oil at last.
    It was in a shabby little side-street, near the Piccadilly Circus end of Regent Street, that he at last ran his quarry to earth, though even here he did not find him at once.
    â€œMoses Moss?” said the manager. “Yes; he works here.”
    â€œCould I have a word with him?” asked Cunningham.
    â€œYou can when he comes in,” answered the manager.
    â€œWhat, hasn’t he arrived yet?” asked Cunningham.
    â€œOh, yes,” replied the manager with a superior smile; “he came in at the usual hour this morning, but he’s off on a job. He’s taking a client for a trial run in a car, you see—the sort of thing that clients want, these days,” he added ruefully, “and if they don’t get a damned good run we don’t get any money.”
    â€œI see,” agreed Cunningham. “But when do you think there’s any chance of his coming back? It’s very important that I should get hold of him as soon as possible.”
    â€œYes?” The manager looked at him with an air of some curiosity. “Money troubles, eh?”
    â€œNo.” Cunningham smiled. “Nothing like that. Just a bit of information that I think he can give me. So when do you think that I shall be able to get him?”
    â€œNot for some time,” was the unwelcome reply. “Not for some hours, anyway. When Moss gets a client on the string he usually takes some hours before he gets anywhere with him. And, as likely as not, he’ll have lunch with the fellow and then take him around to Sally’s for a drink afterwards, just to mark the bargain, as you might say.”
    â€œSally’s? Is that the club in St. Martin’s Lane?” asked Cunningham.
    â€œThat’s right. Dull little show, I call it. Can’t think why so many people go there,” replied the manager. “Still, it seems to do pretty good business, all right, and I know that Moss goes there nearly every day—certainly every day that he’s got a client on the string.”
    â€œWhat time is he likely to be there?” asked Cunningham.
    â€œNot till three o’clock, ’cos that’s when the club opens,” sniggered the manager. “And I haven’t the least idea where he’ll be between now and then, because, you see, we don’t keep very close tabs on our men. As long as they bring home the bacon, that’s all that really matters. They can do it as they damn’ well like.”
    â€œNuisance,” was Cunningham’s comment. “That means that I’ve got some hours to waste.”
    â€œâ€™Fraid it does. Only sorry that I can’t help you any more. Still, you see the way it is. I haven’t the least idea where the man is now.”
    â€œOh, that’s all right. Good morning,” said Cunningham.
    â€œCheerio,” returned the manager.
    Cunningham spent a miserable morning, drinking coffee and wasting as much time over it as possible. Then, when the time for lunch arrived, he lingered over his frugal meal as long as he dared, glancing miserably at the clock at frequent intervals, and cursing the laggard minutes which dragged so heavily by. Eventually, however, the hour of three approached, and he thankfully paid his bill and wended his way towards St. Martin’s