The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie

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€œCertainly,” I said. “You would like me to come now?”
    â€œIf you don’t mind.”
    There was a police car at the door. We drove down in it.
    I said:
    â€œDo you think you’ll be able to get to the bottom of this?”
    Nash nodded with easy confidence.
    â€œOh yes, we’ll get to the bottom of it all right. It’s a question of time and routine. They’re slow, these cases, but they’re pretty sure. It’s a matter of narrowing things down.”
    â€œElimination?” I said.
    â€œYes. And general routine.”
    â€œWatching post boxes, examining typewriters, fingerprints, all that?”
    He smiled. “As you say.”
    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.
    â€œInspector Graves,” explained Nash, “has come down from London to help us. He’s an expert on anonymous letter cases.”
    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.
    â€œThey’re all the same, these cases,” he said in a deep lugubrious voice like a depressed bloodhound. “You’d be surprised. The wording of the letters and the things they say.”
    â€œWe had a case just on two years ago,” said Nash. “Inspector Graves helped us then.”
    Some of the letters, I saw, were spread out on the table in front of Graves. He had evidently been examining them.
    â€œDifficulty is,” said Nash, “to get hold of the letters. Either people put them in the fire, or they won’t admit to having receivedanything of the kind. Stupid, you see, and afraid of being mixed up with the police. They’re a backward lot here.”
    â€œStill we’ve got a fair amount to get on with,” 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:
    â€œVery nice—very nice indeed.”
    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.
    â€œWe’ve got enough, I think, to go on with,” said Inspector Graves, “and I’ll ask you gentlemen, if you should get anymore, to bring them along at once. Also, if you hear of someone else getting one—(you, in particular, doctor, among your patients) do your best to get them to come along here with them. I’ve got—” he sorted with deft fingers among his exhibits, “one 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 butcher’s wife, one to Jennifer Clark, barmaid at the Three Crowns, the one received by Mrs. Symmington, this one now to Miss Burton—oh yes, and one from the bank manager.”
    â€œQuite a representative collection,” I remarked.
    â€œAnd not one I couldn’t 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 Northumberland—written by a schoolgirl, they were. I can tell you, gentlemen, I’d like to see something new sometimes, instead of the same old treadmill.”
    â€œThere is nothing new under the sun,” I murmured.
    â€œQuite so, sir. You’d know that if you were in our profession.”
    Nash sighed and said, “Yes, indeed.”
    Symmington asked:
    â€œHave you come to any definite opinion as to the writer?”
    Graves cleared his