“Oh, it’s clear enough,” the Superintendent agreed. “They spotted you, or had their suspicions, anyway. The fellow wasn’t running any risks, so he dodged off when they got into the side streets. And Mr. Thomsett knows a whole lot more about him than he let on to. Well, we’re putting a man on him, and another to find out if anybody saw his passenger. The trouble is, fly birds like Thomsett know all our chaps. It’s no strain on their memory, because when I say ‘all’, I mean the three men and a boy we’ve got left. I’d ask for one from Bedford, Sergeant, but you’re as shorthanded as we are, and if this is part of Inspector Vance’s case I don’t see why the Yard shouldn’t send a man along.” He reached for the telephone, adding, as he caught Mr. Tuke’s eye: “Oh, I know what they’ll say, sir. Run off their feet, and do we think they’re made of men?”
“Well, don’t mention my name,” said Mr. Tuke, preparing to rise, for Sergeant Webley was pushing back his chair. “It might queer your pitch. The Assistant Commissioner seems to think I wished this case on him just to be annoying. / think it’s rather a nice case. It gets one about, and travel does broaden the mind so. And Sergeant Webley, unless I am much mistaken, has another little trip in view.”
CHAPTER XIX
“WHAT makes you think, sir, that I’ve another little trip in view?” the Sergeant asked when they were in the street again.
“If I were you,” said Mr. Tuke, “I shouldn’t be happy till I’d found out what that Morris was doing in Stocking this morning.”
“Well, it isn’t far out of our way, sir, if you can spare the time.”
“I’d like to know myself. You could also test your theory about Raymond Shearsby’s bicycle.”
“I’d got that in mind, too,” the Sergeant admitted with a smile.
And accordingly, for the third time that day, Mr. Tuke was conveyed along A 603 to Wimpole, and for the second time by the winding lanes to Dry Stocking. It was a quarter to six when the police car drew up before a neat little new house, with cream-washed walls and green-painted woodwork, which bore the enamelled sign of the Hertfordshire Constabulary. Sergeant Webley was still outside his own district, and the proprieties had to be observed.
When, a few minutes later, he was ushered out of the house by the village policeman, who was minus his tunic, for he had been gardening, the Sergeant was accompanied by another officer in plain clothes, whom he introduced to Mr. Tuke as Sergeant Oake, Inspector Vance’s actual deputy in these parts. For the best part of a week Sergeant Oake had been gleaning and sifting the gossip of the neighbourhood, with little to show for his work beyond the results set out in Mr. Vance’s own interim report; and by a happy chance he had just called on the local constable for a cup of tea before cycling back to Cotfold, where he was stationed. This being his territory, his fellow sergeant from Bedford had sought his co-operation in the present inquiries in the village, one of which had already advanced a stage, for as the newcomer got into the back of the car, Sergeant Webley, resuming his seat at the wheel, said to Mr. Tuke:
“Mr. Shearsby did have a bicycle, sir. We’re just going to find out what became of it.”
By Sergeant Oake’s direction, they drove a short way down the street and stopped again before a rambling and somewhat dilapidated house which had a yard and barns behind it. The local officer got out and entered the yard.
“The chap here,” explained Sergeant Webley, “does a trade in old furniture and such. He bought all Mr. Shearsby’s things from his cousin.”
Sergeant Oake soon returned. He was a lean, black-avized man, with a melancholy face and a blue chin, which he was now polishing thoughtfully.
“Looks like you may have hit on something,” he said to his colleague. “Old Worboys says there was no bicycle with the stuff he bought. And he took everything, and went over it piece by piece at the cottage with the other Mr. Shearsby. He remembers now that Mr. Raymond Shearsby did have a bike, picked up second-hand from some chap here, but he says he didn’t think of it at the time. The cousin was in a hurry, and rushed the sale through, though he didn’t forget, Worboys says, to haggle like a shrew over it. To hear Worboys talk, you’d think it was an offence to bargain with a dealer.. Not that the chap wasn’t tight about money —they all say that, and he skimped the funeral something shocking. Anyhow, he didn’t take the bike away with him, that’s certain.” Sergeant Oake fingered his blue’ chin and shook his head sadly. “I ought to have thought of it myself,” he said.
Sergeant Webley was looking justifiably pleased.
“I congratulate you,” Mr. Tuke said. “What is your next step?”
“If Sergeant Oake’s agreeable, we’ll set the constable here to work hunting for that bike. Somebody may have pinched it from the cottage, after Mr. Shearsby’s death— bikes are valuable nowadays—or it may have been found tucked away somewhere in a hedge, like I said.”
The police car, accordingly, returned to the constable’s neat little house, and that officer was instructed to leave his gardening forthwith and begin to scour the village for news of the missing bicycle. The car was then turned once more and headed down the street for The Bushel and Strike.
On the way there Mr. Tuke leaned round to speak to Sergeant Oake, sitting at the back caressing his chin.
“You must be an authority by now, Sergeant, on the rail way service to Whipstead. Do all the trains have corridor coaches ?”
“Not all, they don’t, sir.” Sergeant Oake had also heard of Mr. Tuke, Steeple Mardyke being in his
