mind coming down to the station with me? We could have a conference there and it would save a good deal of time and overlapping.â
âCertainly,â I said. âYou would like me to come now?â
âIf you donât mind.â
There was a police car at the door. We drove down in it.
I said:
âDo you think youâll be able to get to the bottom of this?â
Nash nodded with easy confidence.
âOh yes, weâll get to the bottom of it all right. Itâs a question of time and routine. Theyâre slow, these cases, but theyâre pretty sure. Itâs a matter of narrowing things down.â
âElimination?â I said.
âYes. And general routine.â
âWatching post boxes, examining typewriters, fingerprints, all that?â
He smiled. âAs you say.â
At the police station I found Symmington and Griffith were already there. I was introduced to a tall lantern-jawed man in plain clothes, Inspector Graves.
âInspector Graves,â explained Nash, âhas come down from London to help us. Heâs an expert on anonymous letter cases.â
Inspector Graves smiled mournfully. I reflected that a life spent in the pursuit of anonymous letter writers must be singularly depressing. Inspector Graves, however, showed a kind of melancholy enthusiasm.
âTheyâre all the same, these cases,â he said in a deep lugubrious voice like a depressed bloodhound. âYouâd be surprised. The wording of the letters and the things they say.â
âWe had a case just on two years ago,â said Nash. âInspector Graves helped us then.â
Some of the letters, I saw, were spread out on the table in front of Graves. He had evidently been examining them.
âDifficulty is,â said Nash, âto get hold of the letters. Either people put them in the fire, or they wonât admit to having receivedanything of the kind. Stupid, you see, and afraid of being mixed up with the police. Theyâre a backward lot here.â
âStill weâve got a fair amount to get on with,â said Graves. Nash took the letter I had given him from his pocket and tossed it over to Graves.
The latter glanced through it, laid it with the others and observed approvingly:
âVery niceâvery nice indeed.â
It was not the way I should have chosen to describe the epistle in question, but experts, I suppose, have their own point of view. I was glad that that screed of vituperative and obscene abuse gave somebody pleasure.
âWeâve got enough, I think, to go on with,â said Inspector Graves, âand Iâll ask you gentlemen, if you should get anymore, to bring them along at once. Also, if you hear of someone else getting oneâ(you, in particular, doctor, among your patients) do your best to get them to come along here with them. Iâve gotââ he sorted with deft fingers among his exhibits, âone to Mr. Symmington, received as far back as two months ago, one to Dr. Griffith, one to Miss Ginch, one written to Mrs. Mudge, the butcherâs wife, one to Jennifer Clark, barmaid at the Three Crowns, the one received by Mrs. Symmington, this one now to Miss Burtonâoh yes, and one from the bank manager.â
âQuite a representative collection,â I remarked.
âAnd not one I couldnât match from other cases! This one here is as near as nothing to one written by that milliner woman. This one is the dead spit of an outbreak we had up in Northumberlandâwritten by a schoolgirl, they were. I can tell you, gentlemen, Iâd like to see something new sometimes, instead of the same old treadmill.â
âThere is nothing new under the sun,â I murmured.
âQuite so, sir. Youâd know that if you were in our profession.â
Nash sighed and said, âYes, indeed.â
Symmington asked:
âHave you come to any definite opinion as to the writer?â
Graves cleared his
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