the operation indignantly, his broad face flushing a deeper shade of red. One would have thought there was something almost indecent about eating a peppermint cream.
‘Now look, Mr Artichoke, I think you’re in a position to help me in a rather important matter. I know you haven’t got a hackney-carriage licence and that it was an offence for you to pick up a fare in the street, but if you picked up the people I think you did, then between you and me there won’t be any charges… is that quite plain?’
Mr Artichoke nodded non-committally, but kept his mouth tight shut.
‘Well then… did you or didn’t you?’
Mr Artichoke shrugged his heavy shoulders and stared at the adjustable in his hand. ‘That depends a bit on who them people was, don’t it?’ he remarked tentatively.
‘I want you to tell me that.’
‘But how am I goin’ to know if they’re the ones I shan’t get pinched over?’
Gently returned the shrug. ‘I’ve got a very bad memory except for criminal offences.’
Mr Artichoke brooded some more on the adjustable. ‘Just suppose there were two of them — a male and a female. Is that somewhere about the mark?’
‘It’s right on the target.’
‘And suppose this female was a blonde female — one of them there that work up this way during the season… am I still going the right way?’
Gently nodded with deliberate slowness.
‘And suppose this bloke was a foreigner with a beard, dressed a bit flashy, and answering to the name of Max — and suppose they wanted taking to a house on the cliff which as far as I know has been empty for the last five years. Would I still be heading straight?’
There was the briefest of wavers in Gently’s nodding and a smile little short of angelic crept over his face. ‘Mr Artichoke… you’ve just answered the sixty-four dollar question, whether you know it or not.’
‘Eh?’ queried Mr Artichoke.
‘The sixty-four dollar question,’ repeated Gently. ‘Now just stop here. Don’t move. Don’t go away. I’m going to have a short chat with the superintendent about his man-power problem and after that we’ll make a little trip to North Shore together… who knows? We may even be lucky enough to find a tenant in that house on the cliff…’
Copping made one of the party and Bryce, at Gently’s request, was added to the strength. Copping became highly indignant when he heard about Mr Artichoke’s activities.
‘And after all the ratepayers’ money that’s been spent trying to find the cabby! What’s the use of issuing these licences if a lot of pirates come along and gum up our investigations for us?’
Gently clicked his tongue. ‘He was only turning a slightly dishonest penny.’
‘We might never have caught up with him… you admit it was pure accident.’
‘Luck,’ said Gently, ‘you have to cultivate it in the Central Office…’
Copping snorted. ‘We shouldn’t have needed luck. Routine will catch a criminal if everyone is being completely honest…!’
Under Mr Artichoke’s directions they proceeded north along the main Norchester road. The dreary suburbs passed by, the expensive splendours of High Town and finally the long, level, white-railed expanse of the race- course, its empty stands lifted gloomily against the rain-pale sea.
‘Steady!’ warned Mr Artichoke, made uneasy by the driver’s reckless and newfangled technique, ‘we’re turning off here — if you can pull up this side of Barston!’
The driver slowed down to a dangerous thirty.
‘There!’ exclaimed Mr Artichoke, ‘Up that little loke. There’s only one house up there, so I shan’t have made a mistake.’
‘It’s “Windy Tops”’ muttered Copping, ‘it belongs to one of the Thorners of Norchester.’
Gently glanced at him questioningly.
‘We had some trouble with them a few years back. The Borough Engineer scheduled it as being unsafe because of cliff erosion and they made a case of it. He won the case, but there hasn’t been a cliff-fall in that area from that day to this. Just mention “Windy Tops” if you want to get him in the raw.’
‘It’s been empty all the time?’
‘Naturally. Nobody’s allowed to live in it. The B.E. is just living for the day when it goes over the top.’
The narrow road skirted the northern end of the racecourse, crossed the railway line and turned abruptly left. Here the ground rose suddenly to form the first of a line of crumbling gravel cliffs and perched at the top, looking in no-wise conscious of its danger, was a small but well-architected modern house.
‘Looks safe enough,’ Gently murmured.
‘Probably is,’ grunted Copping, ‘but the B.E. got rapped on the knuckles about a row of cottages that went over… he hasn’t taken any chances since then.’
The road came to an end at a spacious turning place and the gate to ‘Windy Tops’. Bryce was sent round to the back while Gently and Copping advanced on the front. The garden had run to seed and there was grass growing out of the crazy paving, but the house itself seemed in a fair state of preservation and Gently found himself sympathizing with the Thorners in their reluctance to abandon the place. He stooped to inspect the crazy paving.
‘Someone’s been up here recently all right.’
The grass had been bruised by trampling feet. But Copping was already trying the front-door handle and apparently expressing surprise at finding it locked against him. He ran an eagle eye over the front of the house and thus discovered a partly-open window which Gently had noticed as they got out of the car.
‘Easy!’ called Gently, ‘there may be some interesting prints about.’
Copping whisked up the sash and dumped himself over the low sill. Gently followed him at a more dignified pace. It was a large room and had probably been the lounge, but it was quite empty except for some ashes of burnt paper in the grate. Copping swooped on them, sniffing like a well-trained hound.
‘They’re fresh!’ he exclaimed, ‘they haven’t been there longer than a few days.’
Gently nodded and applied a speculative finger to the light switch. Pale radiance shone from an unshaded bulb.
‘Every modern con… and I think I can hear a cistern hissing somewhere.’
‘He’s been living here!’
‘Undoubtedly…’
‘He might be here now!’
‘There’s just the remotest chance…’
The efficient Copping needed no more. He invaded the house like an unleashed jumping-cracker, pouncing from room to room, poking in cupboards, surprising the backs of doors and generally making life hectic for anything in the shape of a secret agent.
‘He slept up here!’ came his muffled cry from above-stairs, ‘There’s a mattress and some blankets… cigarette-ash… empty matchbox!’
Gently shook his head sadly and went to unlock the kitchen door. The cupboard was bare, he knew it intuitively. There had been that chance, that one chance, that Streifer had decided to lie low until the heat was off, but he had sensed it evaporating the moment he had set foot in this so-silent house. He called to Bryce.
‘Any signs of life out there?’
‘No sir, nobody — not even on the beach.’
‘What about the garage?’
‘The door’s on the latch — there’s nothing in there except a pair of old tyres.’
‘Well, come in and give Inspector Copping a hand upstairs. You’ll have to get into the loft somehow.’
Bryce came in without much enthusiasm and went up to join his superior. Gently remained below in the kitchen. There were plenty of signs there of recent occupation. On the draining-board stood a plastic cup and plate with a knife and fork, all dirty. A hot-plate was plugged in at the electric switch-point, upon it a tin kettle and nearby an aluminium teapot. In a wall-safe were a tin of condensed milk, tea, sugar, a couple of rolls… stale of course, but no staler than Saturday’s rolls usually are on Monday afternoon… butter and an unopened tin of anchovies. By the wall leaned two cheap folding-stools. Under the sink stood a rusty distemper-tin containing refuse. And there were
