Sergeant Webley kept on, passed it as it came to a stop, and swore a second time, and loudly.
“Blast the beggar, he’s slipped us!”
In the front seat of the Morris there was only the driver, turning to stare at them as they went by.
Mr. Tuke twisted himself about to peer through the rear window. They were in a street of mean houses, with two or three depressed looking shops. The Morris had drawn up in front of a newsagent and tobacconist’s. The driver was now getting out. He walked round to the pavement with his head over his shoulder and his gaze following the police car. As this turned out of the street at the far end, he was standing before a pair of large gates beside the shop.
Sergeant Webley pulled up round the corner, and in his turn got out and walked back. Within a couple of minutes he returned to the car.
“Drove into the yard there,” he said as he took his seat once more. “Runs that Morris for hire, I wouldn’t wonder.
Name of Thomsett on the shop, if you noticed, sir. The other chap did us nicely. Must have hopped out while they were round one of these corners. Slipped in a doorway, I dare say, while we sailed by. I’d hoped they hadn’t spotted we were after them.”
“They may merely be taking precautions on general principles,” Mr. Tuke said. “Everything suggests that they are a pair of artful dodgers. What are you going to do now?”
“Run along to the police here and see what they know about Thomsett and that Morris. It ought to give us a line on the other chap in time. I wouldn’t mind, though,” the Sergeant added, as he got into gear, “having some notion of what all this is about.”
“I heartily agree. I dislike being mystified. We seem to have tumbled on an entirely new feature in the case. But it’s all very interesting, don’t you think?”
“Puts a bit of life into it,” Sergeant Webley concurred.
At the police station in St. Andrew’s Street Mr. Tuke tactfully elected to remain in the car. But he was not left there long: within ten minutes the sergeant reappeared, accompanied by no less a personage than a superintendent, who looked at Harvey with respectful interest, and, after introductions, invited him in for a cup of tea.
“We’ll have some news before long,” the Superintendent said.
In his office was an inspector who knew all about the blue Morris. It was the property of Mr. Thomsett, of the tobacco shop, whose description tallied with its driver that day. It was used for hire purposes. Of Mr. Thomsett himself the Inspector held a poor view. The shop could be used as an accommodation address, and, it was believed, for other and less legal purposes. Mr. Thomsett’s friends were of the cheap, raffish type to be found even in university towns, and some of them had criminal records. The tobacconist was now suspected of running a new side line in black market liquor, but so far all efforts to trip him up over this or anything else had failed. He was a nasty piece of goods, said the Inspector, and as cunning and impudent as a cartload of monkeys.
Mr. Tuke had drunk his second cup of strong tea when the expected news arrived. Interviewed by an officer despatched on a bicycle with a specious inquiry about misuse of petrol, Mr. Thomsett had declared that he knew nothing whatever about the fare he had driven to Bedford and back that day. The man, a stranger to him, had come into the shop the morning before to buy cigarettes, and had noticed the advertisement of a car for hire. He returned in the afternoon, and arranged to be taken to Bedford the next day. He gave his name as Farley, and paid cash in advance, Mr. Thomsett holding strong views on bilkers. The police officer, rather hurriedly briefed, had not been told of the Morris’s call at Stocking on the way out, and this incident was not mentioned by Mr. Thomsett. Unaware to what extent his movements in Bedford were known, he gave a truthful account of these. He had not asked for any explanation of his fare’s rather peculiar behaviour there. Something to do with a woman, of course, said Mr. Thomsett with a leer; but fares were fares, and if you started poking and prying into their doings, you could soon whistle for your custom. He could tell some queer tales, and did tell one or two, with gross and impudent chuckles. Prompted about the return journey to Cambridge, he said his fare arranged to be driven back to the shop, which was as handy for him as anywhere else; but at Parker’s Piece Mr. Farley had suddenly remembered an appointment, and had asked to be set down. He had jumped hurriedly from the car before it stopped. Conscious, perhaps, that this was a weak point in his tale, Mr. Thomsett here went over to the offensive, demanding to know why he should be picked on. Had the police ever known him to allow his car to be used for a wrongful purpose? As for petrol, he could account legitimately for every gallon issued to him—and a miserable quota it was, too, for a poor working man who had to live.
In the police officer’s opinion, his visit was not unexpected. Mr. Thomsett did not seem surprised, and had all his answers pat. At this point the Inspector, with a look at the Superintendent, left the room, and his superior turned to Sergeant Webley.
“That bit about Parker’s Piece doesn’t fit with your story, Sergeant.”
“The other chap never got off there, I’ll swear to it, sir,” said the Sergeant. “Mr. Tuke will say the same. The car never slowed up. Besides, we’d have seen him—it’s all open on the
