Suddenly he pounced. But what he had seen was only one of those rusted bedstead ends with which the English landscape is so liberally and incomprehensibly bestrewn. He sauntered on again, humming to himself:
“One said it was a hedgehog,
But another he said, ‘Nay’ . .
He had not, however, been alone for five minutes when an excited bellow reached him from across the lane. Hurrying back to his gate, he found the two sergeants emerging from theirs. And Sergeant Webley was trundling his sheaves before him, in the shape of a bicycle. His pleasant face was bright with triumph, and even Sergeant Oake was grinning.
“Not two hundred yards from the gate,” said Sergeant Webley ecstatically. “Shoved in among the brambles. And as good as new—or as good as second-hand—bar a bit of rust.”
“I congratulate you again, and heartily,” Mr. Tuke said with genuine warmth. “A long shot, Watson, a very long shot, as Sherlock Holmes said on a memorable occasion. And a damned good shot. Really, you know, this is a nice case. It improves every hour. I wonder what we shall find next?”
“This Mr. Holy Joe, I hope,” said Sergeant Oake grimly. “He’ll have a bit of explaining to do.”
“And the first thing he’ll have to explain,” added Sergeant Webley, glancing at Mr. Tuke, “is who he is.”
CHAPTER XX
MR. TUKE, who had telephoned to his wife from Bedford, where he dined, reached St. Luke’s Court soon after nine. Mrs. Tuke, he found, was not alone. Very much at his ease in the largest chair in her drawing-room, sat or rather sprawled the Director of Public Prosecutions.
“Are you here again?” said Mr. Tuke pointedly.
Sir Bruton gave him a pop-eyed stare through the smoke of the Larranaga with which his hostess had provided him.
“Whaddayou mean, again?” he demanded. “Can’t a poor lonely old man enjoy a spot of attractive society now #nd then without you butting in? Thought you were safely out of the way for another hour or two.”
The Director was believed to know more interesting people, including a number of criminals, than anybody in London. And though a bachelor, he lived in great comfort and untidyness in a house in Ashley Gardens, where several pretty nieces, now in the services, came to look after him, as they put it, when on leave. By their uncle’s account, he practically ran a hostel for them and their friends.
“Fact is,” he went on, “my niece Eleanor’s turned up, with a couple of other gals. Can’t get any peace in my own house. Regular Y.W.U.A., that’s what it is.”
“What does ‘U’ stand for?” Mrs. Tuke inquired. “Unchristian,” said Sir Bruton. “You ought to see the way they sink my liquor. Don’t know what gals are coming to. And what have you been up to, Tuke? Wray phoned this afternoon. Said you were interfering again, down in Bedfordshire. Filching police from their duties to go on some wild goose chase, and couldn’t I keep my own staff in order?” Mr. Tuke smiled at his wife, and lowered himself into a chair.
“Wray ought to be grateful. At last the case is making progress.”
“What case?”
“Come off it. This assumption of detachment deceives nobody. You really came here to steal a march on him.”
Sir Bruton abandoned pretence. “Thought you seemed to be having a good time,” he said. “Chasing cars, or something. Always like a bit of action in my stories. And this case grows on you,” he admitted grudgingly. “If it is a case, of course. Well, come on. Cough it up.”
Having joined his guest in a cigar, Harvey began his tale of the day’s adventures. His wife lighted a Turkish cigarette and occupied her fingers with sewing for the French navy. Sir Bruton, to all appearance, fell into a doze. At the end, having omitted nothing but drawn no conclusions, Harvey awaited the Director’s reactions with some curiosity. The old boy might look like a comatose codfish, but there was little he missed. And so his first words showed.
“First I’ve heard of this Holy Joe,” he said, opening one eye. “Wray didn’t mention him. Too busy with your misdemeanours. Well, they ought to be able to lay hands on him. That may save trouble all round. If you ask me, he sounds uncommonly like the missing cousin.”
“Well done,” said Mr. Tuke in a patronising way.
“Think I can’t see things as quick as you? Bah! Anyway, you could have spent your day worse. Though the bobbies seem to have done all the real work. Smart fellow, this Bedford man.”
“A very intelligent officer.”
Sir Bruton began to heave himself more upright in his chair, in the process spraying cigar-ash over his waistcoat. Endeavouring to salve some of this, and conveying the meagre results to an ashtray, he scattered a cloud of fine particles in the air.
“Fact is,” he said, “we aren’t sensibly dressed. Waistcoats ought to have things like bins stuck on ’em. Same as kangaroos. And look at carving. I need a suit of oilskins and a tent when I carve.” Addressing this sort of apologia to Mrs. Tuke, he brushed his hands violently, dissipating more ash. “Well,” he went on to Harvey, “what about this other bloke? The one you chased. What do you make of him?”
“What do you?”
“I think,” said Sir Bruton, fixing his assistant with protuberant glare, “/ think there are altogether too many mysterious blokes in this business. They keep popping up like rabbits. The missing cousin, and this Holy Joe, and now the fellow in the check doodah. Damn it—beg your pardon, ma’am”—the Director, who liked to describe himself as a lawyer of the old school, practised (towards ladies only) certain Victorian courtesies—“what I mean is, we’ve quite enough with the original bunch, without another three on top of ’em. Redundant,
