“What the devil——”
“Don’t waste time. I want a car followed, and the men in it know mine.”
“I was trying to ask what all this is about.”
“I don’t know myself, but the plot thickens. You know what plot. Now just get on with it, will you? I want the man at once. He’ll find me by the box.”
“Really, Tuke——”
“ Hurry!” said Mr. Tuke, and rang off.
Leaving the cabinet, he took up a position a yard or two away, with the box itself concealing him from the men in the Morris, of which, however, in the intervals of the traffic, he could catch glimpses through the glass. He could also dimly see the W.V.S. ladies still hauling bundles from the van. A haughty young woman entered the cabinet, and he shifted his place slightly to see round her. Having glanced at his watch, he took out a cigar and lit it with his usual care.
The young woman left, to be succeeded by a man in a green baize apron. Harvey smoked placidly. Down the street the proceedings continued. In the meantime, however, the telephone system—in spite of occasional lapses still one of our minor modern miracles—was elsewhere doing its stuff; and he had waited only six minutes by his chronometer when a plain green saloon car drew up a few yards away. A man sitting by the driver got out, eyed Harvey in a speculative manner, and came towards him.
“Mr. Tuke?” he said.
“The same.”
“I was instructed to look for you here, sir. I am Detective-Sergeant Webley.”
“Did they give you a portrait parlé? I’m easily described.”
Sergeant Webley smiled. He was a nondescript ma^i of middle age, plainly dressed, who might have passed unnoticed anywhere.
“ Perhaps I ought to ask for proofs of identity, all the same, sir.
Mr. Tuke, his eyes still on the blue Morris, produced the necessary papers. “You know what this is about, I take it?” he asked.
The sergeant returned the documents. “Those deaths at Stocking and Guildford? Yes, the Yard explained,- sir. I am making some inquiries here for Inspector Vance. I happened to be in the station when the call came through just now.”
“Better and better.” Indicating the blue Morris, Mr. Tuke gave in a few words his reasons for being interested in it. “The attraction seems to be Mrs. Mortimer Shearsby. Don’t ask me why. And if you do ask what the devil I’m doing butting in like this, I can only plead a sort of proprietary role in the case. Some of the parties concerned came to me, and I took the matter up with the A.G. And I was born nosy.”
Sergeant Webley, watching the Morris, smiled again.
“We know quite a lot about you, Mr. Tuke. There was that case of a man named Sleight. At Steeple Mardyke. It was outside the county, of course, but near enough for us to be interested.” He was frowning a little as he peered at the distant car. It was apparent that he had excellent sight when he went on: “That’s a Cambridgeshire registration. Wonder what they’re up to? Anyway, it looks like it was a good thing you did butt in, sir. I was beginning to think we’d come to a dead end here.”
Down the High Street the ladies of the W.V.S. had carried in their last bundle. All three disappeared inside their headquarters. The van moved off. But the Morris remained. “Nothing on the Mortimer Shearsbys?” Harvey queried. Cautionary habits die hard, and for an almost imperceptible instant Sergeant Webley hesitated. Then he said:
“No, sir. We can’t find a soul who saw Mr. Shearsby at any of the times we want to know about. Washing out that business in April—it’s too long ago to hope for a bit of luck— we’ve still only his word for what he did on July the 18th and over the Bank Holiday week-end. We’ve had to go careful. Mr. Shearsby’s a man in good position, and Sansil’s a big firm. We don’t want trouble with them. And anyhow, Mr. Tuke,” the sergeant added earnestly, “I don’t see it. Not his own sister. His cousins, yes—he might do them in. But not his sister, when there’s a couple of cousins left he’d get just as much money from. No, I can’t see him doing it. And if he didn’t, it lets him out of the other affair at Stocking. At least, that’s how I look at it.”
“I agree with you there,” Harvey said. “And it’s a point about his sister, though not entirely convincing. Have you considered his character?”
“His character, sir?” The sergeant withdrew his gaze from the Morris to give his companion a puzzled look. “There’s never been anything against him, and he’s lived here ever since he started as a boy with Sansil. What they call a lab. assistant he was then. He pays his way and leads a very quiet life. Always in his garden.”
Mr. Tuke shuddered. “So I noticed.”
“He’s not what you’d call popular,” Mr. Webley went on. “At least, not with those under him. A bit of a toady, by accounts, with the heads and so on. Then he doesn’t smoke or drink, and he’s tight with money. For ever talking about it, too. All Bedford knows he’s coming into a fortune one of these days. And now he’s shooting his mouth about these deaths, saying how much he’ll make by them one minute, and the next dropping hints about needing to take care of himself on dark nights.” The sergeant shrugged tolerantly. “It’s all just silly talk, to show off. Mr. Shearsby likes to feel important.”
“Perhaps I should have used the word temperament instead of character,” Mr. Tuke said. “To illustrate what I was getting at, do you remember the Seddon case?”
“I’ve heard of it, sir. It was before my time in the force.”
“Seddon was another very mean man. He was always thinking and talking about money. And he buried his victim as cheaply as it could be done.”
This time Sergeant Webley’s glance was
