fied
and Sheppard would probably throw a fit.”
“Search his hip
pockets, you fool,” snarled Mr Teal. “And
under his armpits. That’s where he’s most likely to have
it.”
“And don’t
tickle,” said the Saint severely, “It makes me
go all girlish.”
Breathing heavily, the
sergeant searched as instructed and continued to find
nothing.
Simon lowered his arms.
“After which little
formality,” he said amiably, “let us get
back to business. As I was tactfully trying to mention, Claud, there seems to be a sort of corpse lying about on the floor. Do you think we ought to do something about it, or shall we shove it into the bathroom and pretend we haven’t seen it?”
Chief Inspector Teal’s
lower jaw moved in a ponderous surge like the first lurch
of the pistons of a locomotive getting under way as he
dislodged a forgotten bolus of chewing gum from behind
his wisdom teeth. The purple tinge was dying out of his
face, allowing it to revert a little closer to its normal
chubby pink. The negative results of the sergeant’s
search had almost thrown him back on his heels, but the shock
had something homeopathic in its effect. It
had jarred him into taking one wild superhuman clutch at the vanishing tail of his self-control; and now
he found himself clinging on to it with the frenzied fervour of a man who has
inadvertently taken hold of the steering end of a starving alligator.
Behind him, while the
search was proceeding, a number of other persons had sidled
cautiously into the room—a melancholy plain-clothes
sergeant, a bald-headed man with a camera, a small sandy man
with a black bag, a constable in uniform. To the
experienced eye, they identified them selves as the
members of a C.I.D. murder squad as unmis takably
as if they had been labelled.
Simon had watched their
entrance with interest. He was doing some rapid
reconstruction of his own. Mr Teal’s advent had been far
too flabbergastingly apt to be pure coincidence; and the
presence of that compact covey of supporters was extra confirmation of the
fact. Even chief inspectors didn’t go forth with a
retinue of that kind unless they were on a particular
and major assignment. And Simon located the origin of the
assignment a moment later in the shape of a fat blowzy woman
with stringy gray hair who was hovering nervously in
the least-exposed part of the background.
Teal turned and looked for
her.
“Have you seen this
man before ?” he demanded.
She gulped.
“N-no. But I bet ‘e
done it, just the sime. ‘E looks just like one o’ them
narsty capitalists as pore Mr Windlay was always talkin’
abaht.”
Simon’s gaze rested on
her.
“Do you live in these
parts?” he inquired politely.
She bridled.
“This ‘ere is my
property, young man, so you mind yer tongue. I come ‘ere
every week to collect the rent, not that I ‘aven’t wasted me time coming ‘ere
the larst two weeks.”
“You came here today
and found the body?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How long ago was
that ?”
“Not ‘arf an hour ago,
it wasn’t. You oughter know.”
“And then you went
straight out for the police, I sup pose.”
“I went an’ phoned
Scotland Yard, that’s wot I done, knowing as it’s
their business to catch murderers, an’ a good thing,
too. They got you, all right.”
“You didn’t scream or
anything?” Simon asked inter estedly.
The woman snorted.
“Wot, me? Me scream
an’ ‘ave all the neighbours in, an’ get me ‘ouse a bad nime
? Not likely. This is a respectable place, this is, or it was before you come
to it.” A twinge of grief shot through her
suety frame and made it quiver. “An’ now ooze going ter pie me rent,
that’s wot I wanter know.”
The Saint extracted a
cigarette from his case. The minor details of the
situation were satisfactorily cleared up—the remarkably prompt arrival of the
C.I.D. combined with the absence of a crowd outside.
The fact that that exceptional conjunction of
circumstances had resulted in
and Sheppard would probably throw a fit.”
“Search his hip
pockets, you fool,” snarled Mr Teal. “And
under his armpits. That’s where he’s most likely to have
it.”
“And don’t
tickle,” said the Saint severely, “It makes me
go all girlish.”
Breathing heavily, the
sergeant searched as instructed and continued to find
nothing.
Simon lowered his arms.
“After which little
formality,” he said amiably, “let us get
back to business. As I was tactfully trying to mention, Claud, there seems to be a sort of corpse lying about on the floor. Do you think we ought to do something about it, or shall we shove it into the bathroom and pretend we haven’t seen it?”
Chief Inspector Teal’s
lower jaw moved in a ponderous surge like the first lurch
of the pistons of a locomotive getting under way as he
dislodged a forgotten bolus of chewing gum from behind
his wisdom teeth. The purple tinge was dying out of his
face, allowing it to revert a little closer to its normal
chubby pink. The negative results of the sergeant’s
search had almost thrown him back on his heels, but the shock
had something homeopathic in its effect. It
had jarred him into taking one wild superhuman clutch at the vanishing tail of his self-control; and now
he found himself clinging on to it with the frenzied fervour of a man who has
inadvertently taken hold of the steering end of a starving alligator.
Behind him, while the
search was proceeding, a number of other persons had sidled
cautiously into the room—a melancholy plain-clothes
sergeant, a bald-headed man with a camera, a small sandy man
with a black bag, a constable in uniform. To the
experienced eye, they identified them selves as the
members of a C.I.D. murder squad as unmis takably
as if they had been labelled.
Simon had watched their
entrance with interest. He was doing some rapid
reconstruction of his own. Mr Teal’s advent had been far
too flabbergastingly apt to be pure coincidence; and the
presence of that compact covey of supporters was extra confirmation of the
fact. Even chief inspectors didn’t go forth with a
retinue of that kind unless they were on a particular
and major assignment. And Simon located the origin of the
assignment a moment later in the shape of a fat blowzy woman
with stringy gray hair who was hovering nervously in
the least-exposed part of the background.
Teal turned and looked for
her.
“Have you seen this
man before ?” he demanded.
She gulped.
“N-no. But I bet ‘e
done it, just the sime. ‘E looks just like one o’ them
narsty capitalists as pore Mr Windlay was always talkin’
abaht.”
Simon’s gaze rested on
her.
“Do you live in these
parts?” he inquired politely.
She bridled.
“This ‘ere is my
property, young man, so you mind yer tongue. I come ‘ere
every week to collect the rent, not that I ‘aven’t wasted me time coming ‘ere
the larst two weeks.”
“You came here today
and found the body?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How long ago was
that ?”
“Not ‘arf an hour ago,
it wasn’t. You oughter know.”
“And then you went
straight out for the police, I sup pose.”
“I went an’ phoned
Scotland Yard, that’s wot I done, knowing as it’s
their business to catch murderers, an’ a good thing,
too. They got you, all right.”
“You didn’t scream or
anything?” Simon asked inter estedly.
The woman snorted.
“Wot, me? Me scream
an’ ‘ave all the neighbours in, an’ get me ‘ouse a bad nime
? Not likely. This is a respectable place, this is, or it was before you come
to it.” A twinge of grief shot through her
suety frame and made it quiver. “An’ now ooze going ter pie me rent,
that’s wot I wanter know.”
The Saint extracted a
cigarette from his case. The minor details of the
situation were satisfactorily cleared up—the remarkably prompt arrival of the
C.I.D. combined with the absence of a crowd outside.
The fact that that exceptional conjunction of
circumstances had resulted in
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