He sat in front of the telephone for a long moment after that and then he dialled the County Police Headquarters at Calleford.
“I want a police launch,” he said to the officer at the other end.
“Speak on.”
“Strictly for observation.”
“If you want the drug squad you’ve got the wrong number.”
“I don’t.”
“That makes a change,” said the voice equably.
“At least,” said Sloan, “I don’t think I do.”
“Myself, I wouldn’t put anything past the drugs racket.”
“No.” That was something he would have to think about. There was probably no one at greater risk than an addict—unless it was a pusher who double-crossed his supplier. Then revenge was simple and swift.
“This launch you want—where and when?”
“Off Marby. Round the headland. I shall be sending a constable up on the Cat’s Back there to keep watch as well.”
“Belt and galluses,” remarked the voice. “When do you want this observation kept?”
“Low tide,” said Sloan without hesitation.
“Right you are. By the way,” asked the voice, “what are they to observe?”
“A small fishing trawler called
Then, unable to put it off any longer, he knocked on the door of Superintendent Leeyes’s office.
“Ha, Sloan! Any progress?”
“A little, sir.” Intellectuals were not the only people to be troubled by the vexed relationship between truth and art. “Just a little.”
“Know who he is yet?”
“Not for certain,” said Sloan. He could have delivered a short disquisition, though, on the phrase “growing doubts.”
Superintendent Leeyes waved a hand airily. “Find out what happened first, Sloan, and look for your evidence afterwards.”
That wasn’t what they taught recruits of Training School.
“We haven’t got a lot of evidence to consider,” said Sloan.
But it was too subtle a point for the superintendent.
“You’ve got a body,” boomed Leeyes.
“Yes, sir.” Dr. Dabbe’s full post-mortem report had been on Sloan’s desk that morning, too. It didn’t tell him anything that the pathologist hadn’t already told him, except that the young man had had a broken ankle in childhood, which might help.
In the end.
“With a piece of copper on it,” Leeyes reminded him.
“Yes, sir.” There were those who would call that an obol for Charon but they were not policemen. Sloan had a search warrant for Alec Manton’s farm now. And he’d have to find out what Mr. Jensen at the museum had been up to. Things were obviously moving in the archeological world. Jensen had been out when he rang the museum.
“This ship under the water,” said Leeyes abruptly. “Who does it belong to?”
“Strictly speaking,” said Sloan, “the East India Company, I suppose.”
“Ha!”
“But…”
“Not findings, keepings, eh, Sloan?”
“No, sir.” Not even a bench of magistrates in the Juvenile Court would go along with that piece of childhood lore and faulty law. A roomful of lost property at the police station testified to the opposite too. He cleared his throat, and carried on, “Under the Merchant Shipping Act of 1894…”
“Been at the books, have you, Sloan?”
“A wreck is deemed to belong to the owner…”
Come back, Robert Clive, all forgiven.
“And if the owner isn’t found?” asked Leeyes.
“The wreck becomes the property of the state in whose waters she lies.”
“And, sir, the goods discovered in a wreck…”
“Yes?”
“Can be auctioned.”
“Who benefits?” asked Leeyes sharply. “Or does the Crown take?”
“The finder gets most of the proceeds.” The superintendent’s phrase reminded Sloan of a move on the chessboard.
The superintendent looked extremely alert. “That’s different.”
“Salvage,” added Sloan for the record, “is something quite separate.”
Leeyes’s mind was running along ahead. “You’re going to track this farmer down, aren’t you, Sloan?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Alec Manton was high on his list of people to be seen.
So was a man called Peter Hinton.
Before that there was still some routine work to be done at the police station. He picked up the phone and quickly dialled a number.
“Rita, this is Detective Inspector Sloan speaking. I’d like to talk to Dr. Dabbe if he’s not too busy.”
“He isn’t doing anyone now, Inspector, if that’s what you mean.”
That was what Sloan did mean.
“Hang on,” said Rita, “and I’ll put you through straightaway.”
If a girl wasn’t overawed by death, then neither doctors nor police inspectors were going to carry much weight…
“Dabbe here,” said the pathologist down the telephone.
“We may,” said Sloan circumspectly, “repeat may—just have a possible name for yesterday’s body.”
“Ah.”
“There’s a man called Peter Hinton who was last seen alive about two months ago at his lodgings in Luston.”
“You don’t,” said the pathologist temperately, “get a great hue and cry from lodgings.”
“If,” advanced Sloan cautiously, “we had reason to believe that he might be our chap—your chap, that is— what would be needed in the way of proof?”
“His dentist,” replied Dr. Dabbe promptly, “his dental records and a forensic odontologist. You’d be half-way there then.”
“And the other half of the way?”
“A good full-face photograph that could be superimposed on the ones that have been taken here.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” said Sloan.
He could hear the pathologist leafing through his notes. “Wasn’t there a broken ankle in childlood, too, Sloan?”
“So you said, Doctor.”
“Everything helps,” said Dr. Dabbe largely, “and when they all add up, why then—well, there you are, aren’t you?”
Which was scarcely grammar but which did make sense.
Detective Constable Crosby reported back to the police station with what he had gleaned about Peter Hinton and the death of Mrs. Mundill.
“I checked on her death certificate like you said, sir.”
“Yes?” said Sloan. You couldn’t be too careful in this game.
“Cachexia,” spelt out Crosby carefully.
