Richardson Scores Again by Basil Thomson Page A

’phoning to me.”
    Richardson’s next visit was to the local superintendent of the County Constabulary, to whom he showed a copy of the woman’s letter found in the pocket-book. The superintendent shook his head.
    â€œAs I read this letter, the writer is a farmer’s wife, or a farmer on her own account, in urgent need of money. Well, sergeant, there are hundreds of little poultry farmers in my division round Portsmouth, and most, if not all of them, are in urgent need of money. No, sergeant; much as I should like to help you, it would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a bundle of hay, and a sheer waste of time and money to start an inquiry on nothing but this letter. If you had the envelope with a legible postmark something might be done.”
    â€œNo, sir; as you see, there’s no address and we haven’t got the envelope. The letter was found in the pocket-book of Lieutenant Eccles, R.N. —found on the scene of the Hampstead murder—and he declines to say who wrote it.”
    â€œIs that the man who was arrested in Somersetshire for stealing a car in Portsmouth?”
    â€œYes, sir; the same man. I thought that perhaps one of your officers might know of some farmer who is in financial difficulties and might recognize the handwriting. We know that the writer lives quite close to the town.”
    â€œShe talks of her place as a ‘farm,’ but probably it is nothing but an allotment with poultry running on it. After the war hundreds of ex-service men started poultry-keeping on little plots of land like that, expecting to make their fortunes. Most of them have gone under and the rest are on the verge of it. I could, of course, send an officer round the branch post offices in my division on the chance that one of their employees recognized the handwriting, but they aren’t over-weighted with intelligence and I feel sure that it would be time wasted. I’m sorry.” Not being authorized to part with the original letter, Richardson thanked him and took his leave. He had still one visit to make, but the sacred hour of lunch-time was approaching, when small business offices were bound to be closed. He had had no breakfast, and the void within him was affecting his spirits. He must eat and drink like other people, but he determined to turn his meal to account if he could. Not for him the amenities of the Crown Hotel or its like, where naval officers took their lady friends to lunch. He made for the Westward Ho public-house.
    The company assembled at the bar-counter seemed to be in a convivial mood, but a hush fell when he entered the bar-room. One or two of the company gulped down the contents of their glasses and melted unostentatiously away. The rest stood their ground and eyed him with suspicion. Apparently it was his clothes that failed to please them.
    â€œLooking for somebody, mister?” asked a burly dock-labourer with a red face, painted by some other agency than the sun.
    â€œNo, mate; I’ve come in here to get something to eat.”
    â€œStep into the bar-parlour, sir,” suggested the barman, correctly interpreting the wishes of his clients. “I’ll be along in two ticks.”
    Richardson passed through the door indicated and found himself alone in a tiny cubby-hole of a room. The door flew open behind him and the barman, in his shirt-sleeves, taking up a strategic position where he could take his guest’s order and at the same time keep an eye upon his unguarded bar, asked him what he fancied.
    â€œCheese, bread and beer? That’s easy. Got ’em all in the bar. Sit tight, sir, and I’ll be back with them before you can turn round.” He was as good as his word, and as he clapped down the plates and glass on the table and slipped back to the door, he remarked, “Took you for a ’tec, they did, in there. They’re disputing now whether you belong to the City Force or the County.”
    â€œI